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Portrait  of  Tsar  Nicholas  I 

Engraved  on  steel  by  Hopwood 


3IUit3tratr&    IGtbrani   lEditimt 


FATHER  5ERGIU5 


THE  FORGED  COUPON 


MISCELLANEOUS 
STORIES 

By 
LEV   N.  TOLSTOY 

Edited  by  DR.  HAGBERG  WRIGHT 


•e  i  ',,e     T,/'  i'T;' 


BOSTON 

COLONIAL  PRESS  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,    igi2 
By   Dodp.  Mead  &   Company 


Sftt* 


ocj^jM^SSl 


FATHER  SERGIUS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Father  Sergius 9 

The  Wisdom  of  Children 97 

The  Posthumous  Papers  of  the  Hermit,  Fedor 

Kusmich 189 

Memoirs  of  a  Lunatic 227 

Two  Wayfarers 253 

Khodinka:  an  incident  of  the  Coronation  of 

Nicholas  II 261 

Introduction  to  "  A  Mother  " 279 

The  Memoirs  of  A  Mother 293 

Father  Vasily:  A  Fragment 307 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

Portrait  of  Nicholas  I Frontispiece 

Russian  Pope 22 

Alexander  I 190 


Tolstoy  as  an  Officer 15 

Russian  Peasant 211 


FATHER  SERGIUS 


FATHER    SERGIUS 

I 

There  happened  in  St.  Petersburg  during  the 
forties  an  event  which  startled  society. 

A  handsome  youth,  a  prince,  an  officer  in  the 
Cuirassiers  for  whom  every  one  had  predicted  the 
rank  of  aide-de-camp  and  a  brilliant  career  at- 
tached to  the  person  of  Emperor  Nicholas  I., 
quitted  the  service.  He  broke  with  his  beautiful 
fiancee,  a  lady-in-waiting,  and  a  favourite  of  the 
empress,  just  a  fortnight  before  the  wedding-day, 
and  giving  his  small  estate  to  his  sister,  retired  to 
a  monastery  to  become  a  monk. 

To  those  who  were  ignorant  of  the  hidden 
motives,  this  was  an  extraordinary  and  unaccount- 
able step;  but  as  regards  Prince  Stephen  Kasatsky 
himself,  it  was  such  a  natural  move  that  he  could 
not  conceive  an  alternative. 

His  father,  a  retired  colonel  of  the  Guards, 
died  when  the  son  was  twelve.  Although  it  was 
hard  for  his  mother  to  let  him  go  from  her,  she 
would  not  act  in  defiance  of  the  wishes  of  her  late 


io  FATHER  SERGIUS 

husband,  who  had  expressed  the  desire  that  in  the 
event  of  his  death  the  boy  should  be  sent  away 
and  educated  as  a  cadet.  So  she  secured  his  ad- 
mission to  the  corps. 

The  widow  herself  with  her  daughter  Varvara 
moved  to  St.  Petersburg  in  order  to  be  in  the 
same  town  with  the  boy  and  to  take  him  home 
for  his  holidays.  He  showed  brilliant  capacity 
and  extraordinary  ambition,  and  came  out  first  in 
military  drill,  in  riding,  and  in  his  studies, — 
mathematics  especially —  for  which  he  had  a  par- 
ticular liking. 

In  spite  of  his  abnormal  height  he  was  a  hand- 
some, graceful  lad,  and  had  it  not  been  for  his 
violent  temper  he  would  have  been  an  altogether 
exemplary  cadet.  He  never  drank  or  indulged 
in  any  sort  of  dissipation,  and  he  was  particu- 
larly truthful.  The  fits  of  fury  which  maddened 
him  from  time  to  time,  when  he  lost  all  control 
over  himself  and  raged  like  a  wild  animal,  were 
the  only  faults  in  his  character.  Once,  when  a 
cadet  ragged  him  because  of  his  collection  of  min- 
erals, he  almost  threw  the  boy  out  of  the  win- 
dow. On  another  occasion  he  rushed  at  an  offi- 
cer and  struck  him,  it  was  said,  for  having  bro- 
ken his  word  and  told  a  direct  lie. 

For  this  he  would  surely  have  been  degraded 
to  the  rank  of  a  common  soldier,   if  it  had  not 


FATHER  SERGIUS  n 

been  for  the  head  of  the  school,  who  hushed  up 
the  matter  and  dismissed  the  officer. 

At  eighteen  Kasatsky  left  with  the  rank  of  lieu- 
tenant and  entered  an  aristocratic  Guard  regiment. 
The  Emperor  Nicholas  had  known  him  while  he 
was  in  the  cadet  corps,  and  had  shown  him  favour 
while  in  the  regiment.  It  was  on  this  account 
that  people  prophesied  that  he  would  become  an 
aide-de-camp.  Kasatsky  desired  it  greatly,  al- 
though less  from  ambition  than  from  passionate 
love  for  the  emperor  whom  he  had  cherished  since 
his  cadet  days.  Each  time  the  emperor  visited 
the  school  —  and  he  visited  it  very  often  —  as 
Kasatsky  saw  the  tall  figure,  the  broad  chest,  the 
aquiline  nose  above  the  moustache,  and  the  close- 
cropped  side  whiskers,  the  military  uniform,  and 
the  brisk,  firm  step,  and  heard  him  greeting  the 
cadets  in  his  strident  voice,  he  experienced  the  mo- 
mentary ecstasy  of  one  who  sees  his  well-beloved. 
But  his  passionate  adoration  of  the  emperor  was 
even  more  intense.  He  desired  to  give  up  some- 
thing, everything,  even  himself,  to  show  his  in- 
finite devotion.  The  Emperor  Nicholas  knew 
that  he  inspired  such  admiration,  and  deliberately 
provoked  it.  He  played  with  the  cadets,  made 
them  surround  him,  and  treated  them  sometimes 
with  childish  simplicity,  sometimes  as  a  friend, 
and  then  again  with  an  air  of  solemn  grandeur. 


12  FATHER  SERGIUS 

After  the  incident  with  the  officer,  the  emperor, 
who  did  not  allude  to  it,  waved  Kasatsky  theat- 
rically aside  when  the  latter  approached  him. 
Then,  when  he  was  leaving,  he  frowned  and  shook 
his  linger  at  the  boy,  saying,  "Be  assured  that 
everything  is  known  to  me;  but  there  are  things 
I  do  not  wish  to  know.  Nevertheless  they  are 
here,"  and  he  pointed  to  his  heart. 

When  the  cadets  were  formally  received  by  the 
emperor  on  leaving  the  school,  he  did  not  remind 
Kasatsky  of  his  insubordination,  but  told  them  all, 
as  was  his  custom,  that  they  could  turn  to  him  in 
need,  that  they  were  to  serve  him  and  their  coun- 
try with  loyalty,  and  that  he  would  ever  remain 
their  best  friend.  All  were  touched  —  as  usual 
—  and  Kasatsky,  remembering  the  past,  shed 
tears  and  made  a  vow  to  serve  his  beloved  Tsar 
with  all  his  might. 

When  Kasatsky  entered  the  regiment,  his 
mother  and  sister  left  St.  Petersburg,  going  first 
to  Moscow  and  then  to  their  estate  in  the  coun- 
try. Kasatsky  gave  half  his  fortune  to  his  sister. 
What  remained  was  quite  sufficient  to  support  him 
in  the  expensive  regiment  which  he  had  joined. 

Viewed  from  outside,  Kasatsky  seemed  like  an 
ordinary  brilliant  young  officer  of  the  Guards 
making  a  career  for  himself.  But  within  his 
soul   there   were   intense   and   complex   strivings. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  13 

Although  this  striving,  which  had  been  going  on 
ever  since  his  childhood,  seemed  to  vary  in  its  na- 
ture, it  was  essentially  one  and  the  same,  and  had 
for  its  object  that  absolute  perfection  in  every  un- 
dertaking which  would  give  him  the  applause  and 
admiration  of  the  world.  Whatever  it  might  be, 
accomplishments  or  learning,  he  worked  to  merit 
praise,  and  to  stand  as  an  example  to  the  rest. 
Mastering  one  subject  he  took  up  another,  and  so 
obtained  first  place  in  his  studies.  For  example, 
while  he  was  still  in  the  corps,  conscious  of  a  lack 
of  fluency  in  his  French,  he  contrived  to  master 
the  language  so  that  he  knew  it  like  his  own. 
Then  again,  when  he  became  interested  in  chess 
while  still  in  the  corps,  he  worked  at  the  game  till 
he  acquired  proficiency. 

Apart  from  the  chief  end  of  life,  which  was  in 
his  eyes  the  service  of  the  Tsar  and  his  country,  he 
had  always  some  self-appointed  aim,  and,  how- 
ever unimportant  it  might  be,  he  pursued  this  with 
his  whole  soul,  and  lived  for  it  until  it  was  ac- 
complished. But  the  moment  it  was  attained  an- 
other arose  in  its  place.  This  passion  for  distin- 
guishing himself  and  for  pursuing  one  object  in 
order  to  distinguish  himself  filled  his  life.  So  it 
was  that  after  entering  upon  his  career  he  set  him- 
self to  acquire  the  utmost  perfection  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  service,   and,   except   for  his  uncon- 


i4  FATHER  SERGIUS 

trollable  temper,  which  was  sometimes  the  occa- 
sion of  actions  that  were  inimical  to  his  success, 
he  soon  became  a  model  officer. 

Once,  during  a  conversation  in  society,  he  real- 
ised the  need  of  a  more  general  education.  So 
setting  himself  to  work  to  read  books,  he  soon  at- 
tained what  he  desired.  Then  he  wanted  to  hold 
a  brilliant  position  in  aristocratic  society.  He 
learned  to  dance  beautifully,  and  was  presently 
invited  to  all  the  balls  and  parties  in  the  best  cir- 
cles. But  he  was  not  satisfied  with  this.  He  was 
accustomed  to  being  first  in  everything,  and  in 
this  instance  he  was  very  far  from  that.  Society 
at  that  time  consisted,  as  I  suppose  it  has  done  in 
every  time  and  place,  of  four  kinds  of  people  — 
rich  people  who  are  received  at  court;  people  who 
are  not  rich,  but  are  born  and  brought  up  in  court 
circles;  rich  people  who  ape  the  court;  and  peo- 
ple, neither  rich  nor  of  the  court,  who  copy  both. 

Kasatsky  did  not  belong  to  the  first  two,  but 
was  gladly  received  in  the  last  two  sets.  On  en- 
tering society  his  first  idea  was  that  he  must  have 
a  liaison  with  a  society  lady;  and  quite  unexpect- 
edly it  soon  came  about.  Presently,  however,  he 
realised  that  the  circle  in  which  he  moved  was  not 
the  most  exclusive,  and  that  there  were  higher 
spheres,  and  that,  notwithstanding  he  was  re- 
ceived there,   he  was  a  stranger  in  their  midst. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  15 

They  were  polite  to  him,  but  their  manner  made 
it  plain  that  they  had  their  own  intimates,  and 
that  he  was  not  one  of  them.  Kasatsky  longed 
to  be  one  of  them.  To  attain  this  end  he  must 
become  an  aide-de-camp  —  which  he  expected  to 
be  —  or  else  he  must  marry  into  the  set.  He  re- 
solved upon  this  latter  course.  His  choice  fell 
upon  a  young  girl,  a  beauty,  belonging  to  the 
court,  and  not  merely  belonging  to  the  circle  he 
wished  to  move  in,  whose  society  was  coveted  by 
the  most  distinguished  and  the  most  firmly  rooted 
in  this  circle.  This  was  the  Countess  Korotkova. 
Kasatsky  began  to  pay  court  to  her  purely  for  the 
sake  of  his  career;  she  was  uncommonly  attractive, 
and  he  very  soon  fell  in  love  with  her.  She  was 
noticeably  cool  towards  him  at  first,  and  then  sud- 
denly everything  changed.  She  treated  him  gra- 
ciously, and  her  mother  continually  invited  him 
to  the  house. 

Kasatsky  proposed,  and  was  accepted.  He 
was  rather  astonished  at  the  facility  with  which 
he  gained  his  happiness,  and  he  noticed  something 
strange  in  the  behaviour  towards  him  of  both 
mother  and  daughter.  He  was  deeply  in  love, 
and  love  had  made  him  blind,  so  he  failed  to 
realise  what  nearly  the  whole  town  knew  —  that 
the  previous  year  his  fiancee  had  been  the  favour- 
ite of  the  Emperor  Nicholas. 


1 6  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Two  weeks  before  the  day  arranged  for  the 
wedding  Kasatsky  was  at  Tsarskoye  Selo,  at  the 
country  place  of  his  fiancee.  It  was  a  hot  day  in 
May.  The  lovers  had  had  a  walk  in  the  garden, 
and  were  sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  shade  of  the 
lindens.  Mary  looked  exceedingly  pretty  in  her 
white  muslin  dress.  She  seemed  the  personifica- 
tion of  love  and  innocence  —  now  bending  her 
head,  now  gazing  at  her  handsome  young  lover, 
who  was  talking  to  her  with  great  tenderness  and 
self-restraint,  as  though  he  feared  by  look  or  ges- 
ture to  offend  her  angelic  purity.  Kasatsky  be- 
longed to  those  men  of  the  'forties,  who  do  not 
exist  nowadays,  who  deliberately,  while  condon- 
ing impurity  in  themselves,  require  in  their  wives 
the  most  ideal  and  seraphic  innocence.  Being 
prepared  to  find  this  purity  in  every  girl  of  their 
set,  they  behaved  accordingly.  This  theory,  in 
so  far  as  it  concerned  the  laxity  which  the  men  per- 
mitted themselves,  was  certainly  altogether  wrong 
and  harmful;  but  in  its  relation  to  the  women  I 
think,  compared  with  the  notion  of  the  modern 
young  man  who  sees  in  every  girl  nothing  but  a 
mate  or  a  female,  there  was  much  to  be  said  for 
it.  The  girls,  perceiving  such  adoration,  en- 
deavoured with  more  or  less  success  to  be  god- 
desses. 

Kasatsky  held  the  views  of  his  time,  and  looked 


FATHER  SERGIUS  17 

with  such  eyes  upon  his  sweetheart.  That  day 
he  was  more  in  love  than  ever,  but  there  was 
nothing  sensual  in  his  feelings  towards  his 
fiancee.  On  the  contrary  he  regarded  her  with 
the  tender  adoration  of  something  unattainable. 
He  rose  and  stood  at  his  full  height  before  her, 
leaning  with  both  hands  on  his  sabre. 

"  Now  for  the  first  time  I  know  what  happi- 
ness is.  And  it  is  you  —  darling  —  who  have 
given  me  that  happiness,"  he  said,  smiling  shyly. 

He  was  still  at  that  stage  where  endearments 
are  not  yet  a  habit,  and  it  made  him  gasp  to  think 
of  using  them  to  such  an  angel. 

"  It  is  you  who  have  made  me  see  myself 
clearly.  You  have  shown  me  that  I  am  better 
than  I  thought,"  he  added. 

"I  knew  it  long  ago.  That  is  what  made  me 
begin  to  love  you." 

The  nightingales  were  beginning  their  song 
somewhere  near,  and  the  young  leaves  moved  in 
the  sudden  gusts  of  wind.  He  raised  her  hand 
to  his  lips  and  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

She  understood  that  he  was  thanking  her  for 
having  said  that  she  loved  him.  He  took  a  few 
steps  backwards  and  forwards,  remaining  silent, 
then  approached  her  again,  and  sat  beside  her. 

"  You  know,  when  I  began  to  make  love  to 
you,    it    was    not    disinterested    on    my    part.      I 


1 8  FATHER  SERGIUS 

wanted  to  get  into  society.  And  then,  when  I 
came  to  know  you  better,  how  little  all  that  mat- 
tered, compared  to  you !  Are  you  angry  with  me 
for  that?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  touched  his  hand.  He 
understood  that  it  meant  "  I  am  not  angry." 

"Well,  you  said — "  he  stopped.  It  seemed 
too  bold  to   say  what  he   intended.      "  You   said 

—  that   you  —  began   to    love   me  —  forgive   me 

—  I  quite  believe  it  —  but  there  is  something 
that  troubles  you  and  stands  in  the  way  of  your 
feelings.     What  is  it?  " 

"Yes  —  now  or  never,"  she  thought.  "He 
will  know  it  anyhow.  But  now  he  will  not  for- 
sake me  because  of  it.  Oh,  if  he  should,  how 
dreadful !  "  And  she  gazed  with  deep  affection 
upon  that  tall,  noble,  powerful  figure.  She  loved 
him  now  more  than  the  Tsar,  and  were  it  not  for 
Nicholas  being  an  emperor,  her  choice  between 
them  would  rest  on  Kasatsky. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  deceive  you.  I 
must  tell  you  everything.  You  asked  me  what 
stood  in  the  way.  It  is  that  I  have  loved  be- 
fore." 

She  again  laid  her  hand  on  his  with  an  implor- 
ing gesture. 

He  was  silent. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  19 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  who  it  was?  The  em- 
peror." 

"We  all  loved  him.  I  can  imagine  you,  a 
school-girl  in  the  institute  — " 

"  No.  After  that.  It  was  only  a  passing  in- 
fatuation, but  I  must  tell  you  — " 

"Well  — what?" 

"No;  it  was  not  simply — "  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

"  What!     You  gave  yourself  to  him?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"  His  mistress?  " 

Still  she  did  not  answer. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  pale  as  death,  with 
his  teeth  chattering,  stood  before  her.  He  now 
remembered  how  the  emperor,  meeting  him  on 
the  Nevsky,  had  congratulated  him. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  what  have  I  done !      Stephen !  " 

"Don't  touch  me  —  don't  touch  me!  Oh, 
how  terrible !  " 

He  turned  and  went  to  the  house. 

There  he  met  her  mother. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  prince?"  she 
stopped,  seeing  his  face.  The  blood  rushed  sud- 
denly to  his  head. 

"'You  knew  it!  And  you  wanted  me  to  shield 
them!     Oh,    if    you    weren't    a    woman — "    he 


20  FATHER  SERGIUS 

shouted,  raising  his  large  fist.  Then  he  turned 
and  ran  away. 

Had  the  lover  of  his  fiancee  been  a  private 
individual  he  would  have  killed  him.  But  it  was 
his  beloved  Tsar. 

The  next  day  he  asked  for  furlough,  and  then 
for  his  discharge.  Feigning  illness,  he  refused  to 
see  any  one,  and  went  away  to  the  country. 

There  he  spent  the  summer  putting  his  affairs 
in  order.  When  summer  was  over  he  did  not 
return  to  St.  Petersburg,  but  entered  a  monastery 
with  the  intention  of  becoming  a  monk. 

His  mother  wrote  to  dissuade  him  from  this 
momentous  step.  He  answered  that  he  felt  a 
vocation  for  God  which  was  above  all  other  con- 
siderations. It  was  only  his  sister,  who  was  as 
proud  and  ambitious  as  himself,  who  understood 
him. 

She  was  quite  right  in  her  estimate  of  his  mo- 
tives. His  becoming  a  monk  was  only  to  show 
his  contempt  for  all  that  seemed  most  important 
to  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  had  seemed  so  to 
himself  while  he  was  still  an  officer.  He  climbed 
to  a  pinnacle  from  which  he  could  look  down  on 
those  he  had  previously  envied.  However,  con- 
trary to  his  sister's  opinion,  this  was  not  the  only 
guiding  motive.  Mingled  with  his  pride  and  his 
passion  for  ascendancy,  there  was  also  a  genuine 


FATHER  SERGIUS  21 

religious  sentiment  which  Varvara  did  not  know 
he  possessed.  His  sense  of  injury  and  his  disap- 
pointment in  Mary,  whom  he  had  thought  such 
an  angel,  were  so  poignant  that  they  led  him  to 
despair.  His  despair  led  where?  To  God,  to 
faith,  to  a  childish  faith  which  had  never  been 
destroyed. 


II 


On  the  feast  of  the  Intercession  of  the  Virgin, 
Kasatsky  entered  the  monastery  to  show  his  su- 
periority over  all  those  who  fancied  themselves 
above  him. 

The  abbot  was  a  nobleman  by  birth,  a  learned 
man,  and  a  writer.  He  belonged  to  that  monas- 
tic order  which  hails  from  Walachia,  the  mem- 
bers of  which  choose,  and  in  their  turn  are  chosen, 
leaders  to  be  followed  unswervingly  and  implic- 
itly obeyed. 

This  abbot  was  the  disciple  of  the  famous  Am- 
brosius,  disciple  of  Makardix  of  the  Leonidas, 
disciple  of  Pa'i'ssy  Velichkovsky. 

To  this  abbot  Kasatsky  submitted  himself  as  to 
the  superior  of  his  choice. 

Beside  the  feeling  of  ascendancy  over  others, 
which  Kasatsky  felt  in  the  monastery  as  he  had 
felt  it  in  the  world,  he  found  here  the  joy  of  at- 
taining perfection  in  the  highest  degree  inwardly 
as  well  as  outwardly.  As  in  the  regiment,  he  had 
rejoiced  in  being  more  than  an  irreproachable 
officer,  even  exceeding  his  duties;' so  as  a  monk 
his  endeavour  was  to  be  perfect,  industrious,  ab- 

22 


Russian  Pope. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  23 

stemious,  meek,  and  humble:  and,  above  all, 
pure,  not  only  in  deed  but  in  thought;  and  obe- 
dient. This  last  quality  made  his  life  there  far 
easier.  In  that  much-frequented  monastery  there 
were  many  conditions  objectionable  to  him,  but 
through  obedience  he  became  reconciled  to  them 
all. 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  reason.  I  have  but  to 
obey,  whatever  the  command."  On  guard  be- 
fore the  sacred  relics,  singing  in  the  choir,  or  add- 
ing up  accounts  in  the  hostelry,  all  possibility  of 
doubt  was  silenced  by  obedience  to  his  superior. 
Had  it  not  been  for  that,  the  monotony  and 
length  of  the  church  service,  the  intrusion  of  vis- 
itors and  the  inferiority  of  the  other  monks, 
would  have  been  extremely  distasteful  to  him. 
But  as  it  was  he  bore  it  all  perfectly  and  found 
it  even  a  solace  and  a  support. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  thought,  "  why  I  ought  to 
hear  the  same  prayers  many  times  a  day,  but  I 
know  that  it  is  necessary,  and  knowing  this  I 
rejoice."  His  superior  had  told  him  that  as  food 
is  necessary  for  the  life  of  the  body,  so  is  spir- 
itual food,  such  as  prayers  in  church,  necessary 
for  maintaining  the  life  of  the  spirit.  He  be- 
lieved it,  and  though  he  found  the  service  for 
which  he  had  to  rise  at  a  very  early  hour  a  diffi- 
culty, it  brought  him  indubitable  comfort  and  joy. 


24  FATHER  SERGIUS 

This  was  the  result  of  humility  and  the  certainty 
that  anything  done  in  obedience  to  the  superior 
was  right. 

The  aim  of  his  life  was  neither  the  gradual  at- 
tainment of  utter  subjugation  of  his  will,  nor  the 
attainment  of  greater  and  greater  humility;  but 
the  achievement  of  all  those  Christian  virtues 
which  seemed  in  the  beginning  so  easy  of  posses- 
sion. 

Being  not  in  the  least  half  hearted,  he  gave 
what  fortune  remained  to  him  to  the  monastery 
without  regret. 

Humility  before  his  inferiors,  far  from  being 
difficult,  was  a  delight  to  him.  Even  the  victory 
over  the  sins  of  greed  and  lust  were  easy  for  him. 
The  superior  had  especially  warned  him  against 
this  latter  sin,  but  Kasatsky  was  glad  to  feel  im- 
munity from  it.  He  was  only  tortured  by  the 
thought  of  his  fiancee.  It  was  not  only  the 
thought  of  what  had  been;  but  the  vivid  picture 
of  what  might  have  been.  He  could  not  resist 
recalling  to  himself  the  image  of  the  famous  mis- 
tress of  the  emperor  who  afterwards  married  and 
became  a  good  wife  and  mother.  Her  husband 
had  a  high  position,  influence,  and  esteem,  and  a 
good  and  penitent  wife. 

In  his  better  hours  Kasatsky  was  not  distressed 
by  this  thought.      At  such  times  he  rejoiced  that 


FATHER  SERGIUS  25 

these  temptations  were  past.  But  there  were  mo- 
ments when  all  that  went  to  make  up  his  present 
life  grew  dark  before  his  mind;  moments  when, 
if  he  did  not  actually  cease  to  believe  in  the  foun- 
dation of  his  present  life,  he  was  at  least  unable 
to  perceive  it;  when  he  could  not  discover  the  ob- 
ject of  his  present  life;  when  he  was  overcome 
with  recollections  of  the  past,  and  terrible  to  say, 
with  regret  at  having  abandoned  the  world.  His 
only  salvation  in  that  state  of  mind  was  obedience 
and  work,  and  prayers  the  whole  day  long.  He 
went  through  his  usual  forms  at  prayers,  he  even 
prayed  more  than  was  his  wont,  but  it  was  lip- 
service,  and  his  soul  took  no  part.  This  condi- 
tion would  sometimes  last  a  day  or  two  days,  and 
would  then  pass  away.  But  these  days  were  hid- 
eous. Kasatsky  felt  that  he  was  neither  in  his 
own  hands  nor  God's,  but  subject  to  some  outside 
will.  All  he  could  do  at  those  times  was  to  fol- 
low the  advice  of  his  superior  and  undertake  noth- 
ing, but  simply  wait. 

On  the  whole,  Kasatsky  lived  then,  not  accord- 
ing to  his  own  will  but  in  complete  obedience  to 
his  superior;  and  in  that  obedience  he  found 
peace. 

Such  was  Kasatsky's  life  in  his  first  monastery, 
which  lasted  seven  years.  At  the  end  of  the 
third  year  he  was  ordained  to  the  priesthood  and 


26  FATHER  SERGIUS 

was  given  the  name  of  Sergius.  The  ordination 
was  a  momentous  event  in  his  inner  life.  He  had 
previously  experienced  great  comfort  and  spirit- 
ual uplifting  at  holy  communions.  At  first,  when 
he  was  himself  celebrating  mass,  at  the  moment 
of  the  oblation,  his  soul  was  filled  with  exaltation. 
But  gradually  this  sense  became  dulled;  and  when 
on  one  occasion  he  had  to  celebrate  mass  in  an 
hour  of  depression  as  he  sometimes  had,  he  felt 
that  this  exaltation  could  not  endure.  The  emo- 
tion eventually  paled  until  only  the  habit  was  left. 

On  the  whole,  in  the  seven  years  of  his  life  in 
the  monastery,  Sergius  began  to  grow  weary.  All 
that  he  had  to  learn,  all  that  he  had  to  attain 
was  done,  and  he  had  nothing  more  to  do. 

But  his  stupefaction  only  increased.  During 
that  time  he  heard  of  his  mother's  death  and  of 
Mary's  marriage.  Both  events  were  matters  of 
indifference  to  him,  as  all  his  attention  and  all  his 
interest  were  concentrated  on  his  inner  life. 

In  the  fourth  year  of  his  monastic  experience, 
during  which  the  bishop  had  shown  him  marked 
kindness,  his  superior  told  him  that  in  the  event 
of  high  honours  being  offered  to  him  he  should 
not  decline.  Just  then  monastic  ambition,  pre- 
cisely that  quality  which  was  so  disgusting  to  him 
in  all  the  other  monks,  arose  within  him.  He 
was  sent  to  a  monastery  close  to  the  capital.      He 


FATHER  SERGIUS  27 

would  have  been  glad  to  refuse,  but  his  superior 
ordered  him  to  accept,  so  he  obeyed,  and  taking 
leave  of  his  superior,  left  for  the  other  monastery. 

This  transfer  to  the  monastery  near  the  me- 
tropolis was  an  important  event  in  Sergius's  life. 
There  he  encountered  many  temptations,  and  his 
whole  will  power  was  concentrated  on  the  strug- 
gle they  entailed.  In  the  first  monastery  women 
were  no  trial  to  him,  but  in  the  second  instance 
this  special  temptation  assumed  grave  dimensions 
and  even  took  definite  shape. 

There  was  a  lady  known  for  her  frivolous  be- 
haviour, who  began  to  seek  his  favour.  She 
talked  to  him  and  asked  him  to  call  upon  her. 
Sergius  refused  with  severity,  but  was  horrified 
at  the  definiteness  of  his  desire.  He  was  so 
alarmed  that  he  wrote  to  his  superior.  More- 
over, for  the  sake  of  humiliation,  he  called  a 
young  novice  and,  conquering  his  shame,  con- 
fessed his  weakness.  He  begged  him  to  keep  an 
eye  on  him  and  not  let  him  go  anywhere  but  to 
service  and  to  do  penance. 

Besides  that,  Sergius  suffered  severely  on  ac- 
count of  his  great  antipathy  to  the  abbot  of  this 
monastery,  a  worldly  man  and  clever  in  worldly 
ways  who  was  making  a  career  for  himself  within 
the  church.  In  spite  of  his  most  earnest  en- 
deavours, Sergius  could  not  overcome  his  dislike 


28  FATHER  SERGIUS 

for  him.  He  was  submissive  to  him,  but  in  his 
heart  he  criticised  him  unceasingly.  At  last, 
when  he  had  been  there  nearly  two  years,  his  real 
sentiments  burst  forth. 

On  the  feast  of  the  Intercession  of  the  Virgin, 
the  vesper  service  was  being  celebrated  in  the 
church  proper.  There  were  many  visitors  from 
the  neighbourhood,  and  the  service  was  con- 
ducted by  the  abbot  himself.  Father  Sergius  was 
standing  in  his  usual  place,  and  was  praying;  that 
is  to  say,  he  was  engaged  in  that  inner  combat 
which  always  occupied  him  during  service,  espe- 
cially in  this  second  monastery. 

The  conflict  was  caused  by  his  irritation  at  the 
presence  of  all  the  fine  folk  and  especially  the 
ladies.  He  tried  not  to  notice  what  was  going 
on  around  him.  He  could  not  help,  however, 
seeing  a  soldier  who  while  conducting  the  better 
dressed  people  pushed  the  common  crowd  aside, 
and  noticing  the  ladies  who  pointed  out  the 
monks,  often  himself  and  another  monk  as  well, 
who  was  noted  for  his  good  looks.  He  tried  to 
concentrate  his  mind,  to  see  nothing  but  the  light 
of  the  candles  on  the  ikonostasis,  the  sacred  im- 
ages, and  the  priests.  He  tried  to  hear  nothing 
but  the  prayers  which  were  spoken  and  chanted; 
to  feel  nothing  but  self-oblivion  in  the  fulfilment 
of  his   duty.      This  was  a   feeling  he  always  ex- 


FATHER  SERGIUS  29 

perienced  when  he  listened  to  prayers  and  antici- 
pated the  word  in  the  prayers  he  had  so  often 
heard. 

So  he  stood,  crossing  himself,  prostrating  him- 
self, struggling  with  himself,  now  indulging  in 
quiet  condemnation,  and  now  giving  himself  up 
to  that  obliteration  of  thought  and  feeling  which 
he  voluntarily  induced  in  himself. 

When  the  treasurer,  Father  Nicodemus  (also 
a  great  stumbling-block  in  Father  Sergius's  way 
—  that  Father  Nicodemus!),  whom  he  couldn't 
help  censuring  for  flattering  and  fawning  on  the 
abbot,  approached  him,  and  saluting  him  with  a 
low  bow  that  nearly  bent  him  in  two,  said  that  the 
abbot  requested  his  presence  behind  the  holy 
gates,  Father  Sergius  straightened  his  cassock, 
covered  his  head,  and  went  circumspectly  through 
the  crowd. 

"  Lise,  regardes  a  droite  —  c'est  lut"  he  heard 
a  woman's  voice  say. 

"  Oil,  oh?     II  n'est  pas  tellement  beau!  " 

He  knew  they  were  referring  to  him.  As  his 
habit  was  when  he  was  tempted,  he  repeated, 
"  Lead  us  not  into  temptation."  Dropping  his 
eyes  and  bowing  his  head,  he  walked  past  the 
lectern  and  the  canons,  who  at  that  moment  were 
passing  in  front  of  the  ikonostasis;  and  went  be- 
hind the   holy   gates   by   the   north  portal.     i\c- 


30  FATHER  SERGIUS 

cording  to  custom,  he  crossed  himself,  bending 
double  before  the  ikon.  Then  he  raised  his  head 
and  looked  at  the  abbot,  whom,  together  with 
some  one  standing  beside  him  in  brilliant  array, 
he  had  already  seen  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

The  abbot  stood  against  the  wall  in  his  vest- 
ments, taking  his  short  fat  hands  from  beneath 
his  chasuble  and  folding  them  on  his  fat  stom- 
ach. Fingering  the  braid  on  his  chasuble,  he 
smiled  as  he  talked  to  a  man  wearing  the  uniform 
of  a  general  in  the  emperor's  suite,  with  insignia 
and  epaulettes,  which  Father  Sergius  at  once  rec- 
ognised with  his  experienced  military  eye.  This 
general  was  a  former  colonel  in  command  of  his 
regiment,  who  now  evidently  held  a  very  high 
position.  Father  Sergius  at  once  noticed  that  the 
abbot  was  fully  aware  of  this,  and  was  so  pleased 
that  his  fat  red  face  and  his  bald  head  gleamed 
with  satisfaction.  Father  Sergius  was  grieved 
and  disgusted,  and  all  the  more  so  when  he  heard 
from  the  abbot  that  he  had  only  sent  for  him  to 
satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the  general,  who  wanted 
to  see  his  famous  "  colleague,"  as  he  put  it. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  in  your  angelic  guise," 
said  the  general,  holding  out  his  hand.  "  I  hope 
you  have  not  forgotten  your  old  comrade." 

The  whole  thing  —  the  abbot's  red  and  smiling 
face  above  his  white  beard  in  evident  approval  of 


FATHER  SERGIUS  31 

the  general's  words;  the  well-scrubbed  face  of 
the  general  with  his  self-satisfied  smile,  the  smell 
of  wine  from  the  general's  breath,  and  the 
smell  of  cigars  from  his  whiskers  —  made  Sergius 
boil. 

He  bowed  once  more  before  the  abbot,  and 
said,  "  Your  grace  deigned  to  call  me — "  and  he 
stopped,  asking  by  the  very  expression  of  his  face 
and  eyes,  "  What  for?  " 

The  abbot  said,  "  Yes,  to  meet  the  general." 

"  Your  grace,  I  left  the  world  to  save  myself 
from  temptation,"  he  said,  pale  and  with  quiver- 
ing lips;  "  why,  then,  do  you  expose  me  to  it  dur- 
ing prayers  in  the  house  of  God?  " 

"  Go!  go!  "  said  the  abbot,  frowning  and  grow- 
ing angry. 

Next  day  Father  Sergius  asked  forgiveness  of 
the  abbot  and  of  the  brethren  for  his  pride.  But 
at  the  same  time,  after  a  night  spent  in  prayer, 
he  decided  that  his  only  possible  course  was  to 
leave  this  monastery;  so  he  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
superior  imploring  him  to  grant  him  leave  to  re- 
turn to  his  monastery.  He  wrote  that  he  felt 
his  weakness  and  the  impossibility  of  struggling 
alone  against  temptation  without  his  help.  He  did 
penance  for  his  sin  of  pride.  The  next  post 
brought  him  a  letter  from  the  superior,  who  wrote 
that  the  sole  cause  of  all  his  trouble  was  pride. 


32  FATHER  SERGIUS 

The  old  man  explained  to  him  that  his  fits  of  an- 
ger were  due  to  the  fact  that  in  refusing  all  clerical 
honour  he  humiliated  himself  not  for  the  sake  of 
God,  but  for  the  sake  of  his  pride;  merely  for  the 
sake  of  saying  to  himself:  "Now,  am  I  not  a 
splendid  fellow  not  to  desire  anything?"  That 
was  why  he  could  not  tolerate  the  abbot's  action. 
"  I  have  renounced  everything  for  the  glory  of 
God,  and  here  I  am  exhibited  like  a  wild  beast!  " 
"  If  you  would  just  give  up  vanity  for  God's  glory 
you  would  be  able  to  bear  it,"  wrote  the  old  man; 
"  worldly  pride  is  not  yet  dead  in  you.  I  have 
thought  often  of  you,  Sergius,  my  son.  I 
have  prayed  also,  and  this  is  God's  message 
with  regard  to  you:  Go  on  as  you  are,  and  sub- 
mit." 

At  that  moment  tidings  came  that  the  recluse 
Hilary,  a  man  of  saintly  life,  had  died  in  the 
hermitage.  He  had  lived  there  for  eighteen 
years.  The  abbot  of  that  hermitage  inquired 
whether  there  was  not  a  brother  who  would  take 
his  place. 

A  Now  with  regard  to  that  letter  of  yours," 
wrote  the  superior,  "  go  to  Father  Paissy,  of  the 

T Monastery.      I  have  written  to  him  about 

you,  and  asked  him  to  take  you  into  Hilary's  cell. 
I  do  not  say  you  could  replace  Hilary,  but  you 


FATHER  SERGIUS  33 

want  solitude  to  stifle  your  pride.  And  may  God 
bless  you  in  your  undertaking." 

Sergius  obeyed  his  superior,  showed  his  letter 
to  the  abbot,  and,  asking  his  permission,  gave  up 
his  cell,  handed  all  his  belongings  over  to  the 
monastery,  and  departed  for  the  hermitage  at 
T . 

The  abbot  of  that  hermitage,  a  former  mer- 
chant, received  Sergius  calmly  and  quietly,  and 
left  him  alone  in  his  cell.  This  cell  was  a  cave 
dug  in  a  mountain,  and  Hilary  was  buried  there. 
In  a  niche  at  the  back  was  Hilary's  grave,  and  in 
front  was  a  place  to  sleep,  a  small  table,  and  a 
shelf  with  ikons  and  books.  At  the  entrance 
door,  which  could  be  closed,  was  another  shelf. 
Upon  that  shelf  food  was  placed  once  a  day  by  a 
brother  from  the  monastery. 

So  Father  Sergius  became  a  hermit 


Ill 


During  the  Carnival  in  Sergius's  second  year  of 
seclusion  a  merry  company  of  rich  people,  ladies 
and  gentlemen  from  the  neighbouring  town,  made 
up  a  troika  party  after  a  meal  of  carnival  pan- 
cakes and  wine.  The  company  was  composed  of 
two  lawyers,  a  wealthy  landowner,  an  officer,  and 
four  ladies.  One  of  the  ladies  was  the  wife  of  the 
officer;  another  was  the  wife  of  the  landowner; 
the  third  was  his  sister,  a  young  girl;  the  fourth 
was  a  divorcee,  beautiful,  rich,  a  little  mad,  whose 
ways  gave  rise  to  amazement  and  indignation  in 
the  town. 

The  night  was  i\p°;  the  roads  smooth  as  a  floor. 
They  drove  ten  miles  out  of  town,  and  then  held 
a  consultation  as  to  whether  they  should  turn  back 
or  go  on. 

"But  where  does  this  road  lead?"  asked 
Madame  Makovkin,  the  beautiful  divorcee. 

"  To  T ,  twelve  miles  further  on,"  said  the 

lawyer  who  was  having  a  flirtation  with  Madame 
Makovkin. 

"  And  beyond?" 

34 


FATHER  SERGIUS  35 

"  Then  to  L ,  past  the  monastery." 

"  Oh,  the  one  where  Father  Sergius  is?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  The  handsome  hermit  —  Kasatsky." 
Yes. 

"  Oh  —  messieurs  et  mesdames  !  —  let  us  go  in 

and  see  Kasatsky.     We  can  rest  at  T and 

have  a  bite." 

"  But  we  shan't  get  home  to-night?  " 

"  We'll  just  spend  the  night  at  Kasatsky's 
then." 

"  Of  course.  There  is  a  hostelry  at  the  mon- 
astery, and  a  very  good  one.  When  I  was  de- 
fending Makine  I  stopped  there." 

"  No,  I  shall  spend  the  night  at  Kasatsky's !  " 

"  Even  your  great  power,  dear  lady,  could  not 
make  that  possible." 

"  Not  possible?     I'll  bet  you  !  " 

"  Good!  If  you  spend  the  night  at  Kasatsky's 
I'll  pay  you  whatever  you  like." 

"  A  discretion!  " 

"  And  you  the  same,  remember." 

"Agreed!      Let's   start." 

They  gave  the  driver  some  wine,  and  they 
opened  a  basket  of  pies,  cakes,  and  wines  for 
themselves.  The  ladies  drew  their  white  furs 
round  about  them.  The  postillions  broke  into  a 
dispute   as   to  which   should   go   ahead,    and  the 


36  FATHER  SERGIUS 

younger  one,  turning  sharply  round,  lifted  his 
whip-handle  high  up  and  shouted  at  the  horses; 
the  bells  tinkled,  and  the  runners  creaked  beneath 
the  sledge.  The  sledge  swayed  and  rocked  a  lit- 
tle; the  outer  horses  trotted  smoothly  and  briskly, 
with  their  tightly-bound  tails  under  the  gaily  dec- 
orated breech-bands.  The  slippery  road  faded 
away  rapidly.  The  driver  held  the  reins 
tightly. 

The  lawyer  and  the  officer  who  sat  on  the  back 
seat  talked  nonsense  to  Madame  Makovkin's 
neighbour,  and  she  herself,  huddled  in  her  furs, 
sat  motionless  and  in  thought. 

"  Eternally  the  same  old  things!  The  ugliness 
of  it.  Shiny  red  faces  reeking  with  liquor  and 
with  tobacco,  the  same  words,  the  same  thoughts, 
for  ever  the  same  abomination;  and  they  are  all 
content  and  satisfied  that  it  should  be  so,  and  thus 
they  will  go  on  till  they  die.  But  I  can't — it 
bores  me.  I  want  something  to  happen  that  will 
upset  and  shatter  the  whole  thing.  We  might  at 
least  be  frozen  to  death  as  they  were  at  Saratov. 
What  would  these  people  do?  How  would  they 
behave?  Execrably,  I  suppose.  Everybody 
would  think  of  nothing  but  himself,  and  I  no  less 
than  the  rest.  But  I  have  beauty  —  that's  some- 
thing. They  know  it.  Well  —  and  that  monk 
i — I  wonder  if  he  really  is  indifferent  to  beauty. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  37 

No,  they  all  care  for  it,  just  like  that  cadet  last 
autumn.     And  what  a  fool  he  was !  " 

"  Ivan  Nicolaievich,"  she  said. 

He  answered,  "Yes?" 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"Who?" 

"  Why,  Kasatsky." 

"  Over  forty,  I  should  think." 

"  Does  he  receive  visitors?  Does  he  see  every- 
body? " 

"  Everybody,  yes;  but  not  always." 

"Cover  up  my  feet.  Not  that  way  —  how 
clumsy  you  are?  Yes,  like  that.  But  you 
needn't  squeeze  them." 

Thus  they  came  to  the  forest  where  the  cell 
was. 

She  stepped  out  of  the  sledge  and  bade  them 
drive  on.  They  tried  to  dissuade  her,  but  she 
grew  irritable,  and  commanded  them  to  go  on. 

Father  Sergius  was  now  forty-nine  years  old. 
His  life  in  solitude  was  very  hard:  not  because 
of  fasting  and  prayers.  He  endured  those  easily. 
But  it  was  the  inner  struggle  which  he  had  not 
anticipated.  There  were  two  reasons  for  this 
struggle:  his  religious  doubts  and  the  temptations 
of  desire.  He  thought  these  were  two  different 
fiends.  But  they  were  one  and  the  same.  When 
his  doubts  were  gone  lust  was  gone.     But  think- 


38  FATHER  SERGIUS 

ing  these  were  two  different  devils,  he  fought  them 
separately.  They,  however,  always  attacked  him 
together. 

"O  my  God,  my  God,"  he  cried,  "  why  dost 
Thou  not  give  me  faith?  There  is  lust  of  course, 
but  even  St.  Anthony  and  the  rest  had  to  fight 
that;  but  faith  —  they  had  that!  There  are  mo- 
ments and  hours  and  days  when  I  do  not  possess 
it.  Why  does  the  world  exist  with  all  its  charm, 
if  it  is  sinful  and  we  must  renounce  it?  Why  hast 
Thou  created  this  temptation?  Temptation? 
But  isn't  this  temptation  to  renounce  the  joys  of 
the  world  and  to  prepare  for  the  life  beyond, 
where  there  is  nothing  and  where  there  can  be 
nothing?"  Saying  this  to  himself,  he  became 
horrified  and  filled  with  disgust  at  himself. 

"You  vile  thing!  And  you  think  of  being  a 
saint!  "  he  said. 

He  rose  to  pray.  But  when  he  began  praying 
he  saw  himself  as  he  appeared  at  the  monastery 
in  his  vestments  and  all  his  grandeur,  and  he 
shook  his  head. 

"  No,  that  is  not  so.  It  is  a  lie.  I  may  de- 
ceive all  the  world,  but  not  myself,  and  not  God. 
I  am  insignificant.  I  am  pitiable."  And  he 
pushed  back  the  skirts  of  his  cassock,  and  gazed 
at  his  thin  legs   in  their  underclothing. 

Then  he  dropped  his  robe  again,  and  began  to 


FATHER  SERGIUS  39 

repeat  his  prayers,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross 
and  prostrating  himself. 

"  Will  that  couch  be  my  bier?"  he  read;  and, 
as  if  a  demon  whispered  to  him,  he  heard:  "The 
solitary  couch  is  also  the  coffin." 

"It  is  a  lie!  "  and  he  saw  in  imagination  the 
shoulders  of  a  widow  who  had  been  his  mistress. 
He  shook  himself  and  went  on  reading.  After 
having  read  the  precepts  he  took  up  the  Gospels. 
He  opened  the  book  at  a  passage  that  he  had 
often  repeated  and  knew  by  heart. 

"  Lord,  I  believe.      Help  thou  my  unbelief." 

He  stifled  the  doubts  that  arose.  Just  as  one 
replaces  an  object  without  disturbing  its  balance, 
he  carefully  put  his  faith  back  into  its  position 
while  it  trembled  at  its  base,  and  stepped  back 
cautiously  so  as  neither  to  touch  it  nor  upset  it. 
He  again  pulled  himself  together  and  regained  his 
peace  of  mind  and  repeating  his  childish  prayer: 
"  O  Lord,  take  me,  take  me  !  "  felt  not  only  at 
ease,  but  glad  and  thrilled.  He  crossed  himself 
and  lay  down  to  sleep  on  his  narrow  bench,  put- 
ting his  light  summer  garment  under  his  head. 
He  dropped  off  to  sleep  at  once.  In  his  light 
slumber  he  heard  small  tinkling  bells.  He  did 
not  know  whether  he  was  dreaming  or  waking. 
But  a  knock  at  the  door  aroused  him.  He  sat  up 
on  his  couch,  not  trusting  his  senses.     The  knock 


4o  FATHER  SERGIUS 

came  again.  Yes,  it  was  nearer,  it  was  at  his  own 
door,  and  after  it  came  the  sound  of  a  woman's 
voice. 

"  My  God !  is  it  true  that  the  devil  takes  the 
form  of  a  woman,  as  I  have  read  in  the  lives  of 
the  saints?  Yes  —  it  is  a  woman's  voice!  So 
timid  —  so  sweet  —  so  tender  !  "  And  he  spat  to 
exorcise  the  devil.  "No!  It  was  only  imagina- 
tion! "  and  he  went  to  the  corner  where  the  lec- 
tern stood  and  fell  on  his  knees,  his  regular  and 
habitual  motion  that  of  itself  gave  him  comfort 
and  pleasure.  He  bowed  low,  his  hair  falling 
forward  on  his  face,  and  pressed  his  bare  fore- 
head to  the  damp,  cold  floor.  There  was  a 
draught  from  the  floor.  He  read  a  psalm  which, 
as  old  Father  Piman  had  told  him,  would  ward  off 
the  assaults  of  the  devil.  His  light,  slender 
frame  started  up  upon  its  strong  limbs,  and  he 
meant  to  go  on  reading  his  prayers.  But  he  did 
not  read.  He  involuntarily  inclined  his  head  to 
listen.      He  wanted  to  hear  more. 

All  was  silent.  From  the  corner  of  the  roof 
the  same  regular  drops  fell  into  the  tub  below. 
Without  was  a  mist,  a  fog  that  swallowed  up  the 
snow.  It  was  still,  very  still.  There  was  a  sud- 
den rustle  at  the  window,  and  a  distinct  voice,  the 
same  tender,  timid  voice,  a  voice  that  could  only 
belong  to  a  charming  woman. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  41 

"  Let  me  in,  for  Christ's  sake." 

All  the  blood  rushed  to  his  heart  and  settled 
there.      He  could  not  even  sigh. 

"  May  the  Lord  appear  and  his  enemies  be  con- 
founded." 

"  But  I  am  not  the  devil!  " 

He  could  not  hear  that  the  words  were  spoken 
by  smiling  lips.  "  I  am  not  the  devil.  I  am  just 
a  wicked  woman  that's  lost  her  way,  literally  and 
figuratively."  (She  laughed.)  "I  am  frozen, 
and  I  beg  for  shelter." 

He  put  his  face  close  to  the  window.  The 
little  ikon  lamp  was  reflected  in  the  glass.  He 
put  his  hands  up  to  his  face  and  peered  between 
them.  Fog,  mist,  darkness,  a  tree,  and  —  at  the 
right  —  She  herself,  a  woman  in  thick  white  furs, 
in  a  fur  cap  with  a  lovely,  lovely,  gentle,  fright- 
ened face,  two  inches  away,  leaning  towards  him. 
Their  eyes  met  and  they  recognised  each  other  — 
not  because  they  had  ever  seen  each  other  before. 
They  had  never  met.  But  in  the  look  they 
exchanged  they  felt  —  and  he  particularly  — 
that  they  knew  each  other;  that  they  under- 
stood. 

After  that  glance  which  they  exchanged  how 
could  he  entertain  any  further  doubt  that  this  was 
the  devil  instead  of  just  a  sweet,  timid,  fright- 
ened woman? 


42  FATHER  SERGIUS     . 

"Who  are  you?  Why  have  you  come?"  he 
asked. 

"  Open  the  door,  I  say,"  she  said  with  a  whim- 
sical authority.      "  I  tell  you  I've  lost  my  way." 

"But  I  am  a  monk  —  a  hermit." 

"  Open  that  door  all  the  same.  Do  you  want 
me  to  freeze  while  you  say  your  prayers?" 

"But  how—" 

"  I  won't  eat  you.  Let  me  in  for  God's  sake. 
.I'm  quite  frozen." 

She  began  to  be  really  frightened  and  spoke 
almost  tearfully. 

He  stepped  back  into  the  room,  looked  at  the 
ikon  representing  the  Saviour  with  His  crown  of 
thorns. 

"  God  help  me  —  help  me,  O  God!  "  he  said, 
crossing  himself  and  bowing  low.  Then  he  w7ent 
to  the  door  which  opened  into  the  little  porch, 
and  feeling  for  the  latch  tried  to  unhook  it.  He 
heard  steps  outside.  She  was  going  from  the  win- 
dow to  the  door. 

"  Oh !  "  he  heard  her  exclaim,  and  he  knew  she 
had  stepped  into  a  puddle  made  by  the  dripping 
rain.  His  hands  trembled,  and  he  could  not  move 
the  hook  which  stuck  a  little. 

"  Well,  can't  you  let  me  in?  I'm  quite  soaked, 
and  I'm  frozen.  You  are  only  bent  on  saving 
your  own  soul  while  I  freeze  to  death." 


FATHER  SERGIUS  43 

He  jerked  the  door  towards  him  in  order  to 
raise  the  latch,  and  then,  unable  to  measure  his 
movements,  pushed  it  open  with  such  violence 
that  it  struck  her. 

"Oh  —  pardon!"  he  said  suddenly,  reverting 
to  his  former  tone  with  ladies. 

She  smiled,  hearing  that  "  pardon."  "  Oh, 
well,  he's  not  so  dreadful,"  she  thought.  "  Never 
mind;  it  is  you  who  must  pardon  me,"  she  said, 
passing  by  him.  "  I  would  never  have  ventured, 
but  such  an  extraordinary  circumstance  — " 

"  If  you  please,"  he  said,  making  way  for  her. 

He  was  struck  by  the  fragrance  of  fine  perfume 
that  he  had  not  smelt  for  many  a  long  day. 

She  went  through  the  porch  into  the  chamber. 
He  shut  the  outer  door  without  latching  it  and 
passed  into  the  room  after  her.  Not  only  in  his 
heart  but  involuntarily  moving  his  lips  he  repeated 
unceasingly,  "  O  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  God, 
have  mercy  on  me,  a  sinner,  have  mercy  on  me,  a 
sinner." 

"  If  you  please,"  he  said  to  her  again. 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  dripping, 
and  examined  him  closely.     Her  eyes  smiled. 

"  Forgive  me  for  disturbing  your  solitude,"  she 
said,  "  but  you  must  see  what  a  position  I  am 
placed  in.  It  all  came  about  by  our  coming  out 
for  a  drive  from  town.      I  made  a  wager  that  I 


44  I  ATHER  SERGIUS 

would  walk  by  myself  from  Vorobievka  to  town. 
But  I  lost  my  way.  That's  how  I  happened  to 
find  your  cell."      Her  lies  now  began. 

But  his  face  confused  her  so  that  she  could  not 
proceed,  so  she  stopped.  She  expected  him  to  be 
quite  different  from  the  man  she  saw.  He  was 
not  as  handsome  as  she  had  imagined,  but  he  was 
beautiful  to  her.  His  grey  hair  and  beard, 
slightly  curling,  his  fine,  regular  features  and  his 
eves  like  burning  coals  when  he  looked  straight 
at  her,  impressed  her  profoundly.  He  saw  that 
she  was  lying. 

"Yes;  very  well,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  and 
dropping  his  eyes.  "  Now  I  will  go  in  there,  and 
this  place  is  at  your  disposal." 

He  took  the  burning  lamp  down  from  before 
the  ikon,  lit  a  candle,  and  making  a  low  bow  went 
out  to  the  little  niche  on  the  other  side  of  the  par- 
tition, and  she  heard  him  begin  to  move  some- 
thing there. 

"  He  is  probably  trying  to  shut  himself  up  away 
from  me,"  she  thought,  smiling.  Taking  off  her 
white  fur,  she  tried  to  remove  her  cap,  but  it 
caught  in  her  hair  and  in  the  knitted  shawl  she 
was  wearing  underneath  it.  She  had  not  got  wet 
at  all  standing  outside  at  the  window.  She  said 
so  only  as  a  pretext  to  be  admitted.  But  she  had 
really  stepped  into  a  puddle  at  the  door,  and  her 


FATHER  SERGIUS  45 

left  foot  was  wet  to  the  ankle,  and  one  shoe  was 
full  of  water.  She  sat  down  on  his  bed,  a  bench 
only  covered  with  a  carpet,  and  began  to  take  her 
shoes  off.  The  little  cell  pleased  her.  It  was 
about  nine  feet  by  twelve,  and  as  clean  as  glass. 
There  was  nothing  in  it  save  the  bench  on  which 
she  sat,  the  book-shelf  above  it,  and  the  lectern  in 
the  corner.  On  the  door  were  nails  where  his  fur 
coat  and  his  cassock  hung.  Beside  the  lantern 
was  the  image  of  Christ  with  His  crown  of  thorns, 
and  the  lamp.  The  room  smelt  strangely  of  oil 
and  of  earth.  She  liked  everything,  even  that 
smell.  Her  wet  feet  were  uncomfortable,  the  left 
one  especially,  and  she  took  off  her  shoes  and 
stockings,  never  ceasing  to  smile.  She  was  happy 
not  only  in  having  achieved  her  object,  but  be- 
cause she  perceived  that  he  was  troubled  by  her 
presence.  He,  the  charming,  striking,  strange, 
attractive  man ! 

"  Well,  if  he  wasn't  responsive,  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter," she  said  to  herself.  "Father  Sergius! 
Father  Sergius!  —  or  what  am  I  to  call 
you!" 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  answered  a  low  voice. 

"  Please  forgive  me  for  disturbing  your  soli- 
tude, but  really  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  would  have 
fallen  ill.  And  even  now  I  don't  know  if  I  shan't. 
I'm  quite  wet  and  my  feet  are  like  ice." 


46  FATHER  SERGIUS 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  the  quiet  voice.  "  I 
cannot  be  of  any  assistance  to  you." 

"  I  would  not  have  come  if  I  could  have  helped 
it.      I  shall  only  stop  till  dawn." 

He  did  not  answer.  She  heard  him  muttering 
something,    probably    his    prayers. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  come  in  here,"  she  said, 
smiling,  "  for  I  must  undress  to  get  dry." 

He  did  not  answer,  continuing  to  read  his  pray- 
ers in  a  steady  voice. 

"  That  is  a  man,"  she  thought,  as  she  attempted 
to  remove  her  wet  shoe.  She  tugged  at  it  in  vain 
and  felt  like  laughing.  Almost  inaudibly,  she  did 
laugh;  then,  knowing  that  he  would  hear,  and 
would  be  moved  by  it  just  as  she  wanted  him  to 
be,  she  laughed  louder.  The  kind,  cheerful,  nat- 
ural laughter  did  indeed  affect  him  just  as  she  had 
wished. 

"  I  could  love  a  man  like  that.  Such  eyes;  and 
his  simple,  noble  face,  passionate  in  spite  of  all 
the  prayers  it  mutters.  There's  no  fooling  us 
women  in  that.  The  instant  he  put  his  face 
against  the  window-pane  and  saw  me,  he  knew  me 
and  understood  me.  The  glimmer  of  it  was  in 
his  eyes  and  a  seal  was  set  upon  it  for  ever.  That 
instant  he  began  to  love  me  and  to  want  me. 
Yes  —  he  wants  me,"  she  said,  finally  getting  off 
her  shoe  and  fumbling  at  her  stocking. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  47 

To  remove  those  long  stockings  fastened  with 
elastic,  she  had  to  raise  her  skirts.  She  felt  em- 
barrassed and  said,  "  Don't  come  in."  But  there 
was  no  answer  from  the  other  side  and  she  heard 
the  same  monotonous  murmurs  and  movements. 

"  I  suppose  he's  bowing  down  to  the  ground," 
she  thought,  "  but  that  won't  help  him.  He's 
thinking  about  me  just  as  I'm  thinking  about 
him.  He's  thinking  about  these  very  feet  of 
mine,"  she  said,  taking  off  the  wet  stockings  and 
sitting  up  on  the  couch  barefooted,  with  her  hands 
clasped  about  her  knees.  She  sat  awhile  like 
this,  gazing  pensively  before  her. 

"  It's  a  perfect  desert  here.  Nobody  would 
ever  know — " 

She  got  down,  took  her  stockings  over  to  the 
stove  and  hung  them  on  the  damper.  It  was 
such  a  quaint  damper!  She  turned  it,  and  then 
slipping  quietly  over  to  the  couch  she  sat  up  there 
again  with  her  feet  upon  it.  There  was  absolute 
silence  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition.  She 
looked  at  the  little  watch  hanging  round  her  neck. 
Two  o'clock.  "  My  people  will  return  about 
three."      She  had  more  than  an  hour  before  her. 

"  Well !  Am  I  going  to  sit  here  by  myself  the 
whole  time?  Nonsense!  I  don't  like  that.  I'll 
call  him  at  once.  Father  Sergius !  Father  Ser- 
gius  !      Sergei  Dimitrievich  !      Prince  Kasatsky!" 


48  FATHER  SERGIUS 

No  answer. 

"  I  say !  That's  cruel.  I  wouldn't  call  you  if 
I  didn't  need  you.  I'm  ill.  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  suffering. 
"Oh!  oh!"  she  groaned,  falling  back  on  the 
couch,  and,  strange  to  say,  she  really  felt  that  she 
was  getting  faint,  that  everything  ached,  that  she 
was  trembling  as  if  with  fever. 

"  Here,  listen !  Help  me !  I  don't  know 
what's  the  matter  with.     Oh  !  oh  !  " 

She  opened  her  dress,  uncovering  her  breast, 
and  raised  her  arms,  bare  to  the  elbows,  above  iier 
head.      "  Oh,  oh  !  " 

All  this  time  he  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door  and  prayed. 

Having  finished  all  the  evening  prayers,  he 
stood  motionless,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  end  of  his 
nose,  and  praying  in  his  heart  he  repeated  with  all 
his  soul:  "Lord  Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  God,  have 
mercy  on  me !  " 

He  had  heard  everything.  He  had  heard  how 
the  silk  rustled  when  she  took  off  her  dress;  how 
she  stepped  on  the  floor  with  her  bare  feet.  He 
heard  how  she  rubbed  her  hands  and  feet.  He 
felt  himself  getting  weak,  and  thought  he  might 
be  lost  at  any  moment.  That  was  why  he  prayed 
unceasingly.  His  feelings  must  have  been  some- 
what like  those  of  the  hero  in  the  fairy  tale  who 


FATHER  SERGIUS  49 

had  to  go  on  and  on  without  ever  turning  back. 
Sergius  heard  and  felt  that  the  danger  was  there 
just  above  his  head,  around  him,  and  that  the  only 
way  to  escape  it  was  not  to  look  round  on  it  for  an 
instant.  Then  suddenly  the  desire  to  see  her  came 
upon  him,  and  at  that  very  instant  she  exclaimed, 
"Now  this  is  monstrous!      I  may  die." 

"  Yes,  I  will  come.  But  I  will  go  like  that 
saint  who  laid  one  hand  upon  the  adulteress  but 
put  the  other  upon  burning  coals." 

But  there  were  no  burning  coals.  He  looked 
round.     The  lamp!     The  lamp! 

He  put  a  finger  over  the  flame  and  frowned, 
ready  to  endure.  In  the  beginning  it  seemed  to 
him  that  there  was  no  sensation.  But  then  of  a 
sudden,  before  he  had  decided  whether  it  hurt 
him  or  how  much  it  hurt  him,  his  face  writhed, 
and  he  jerked  his  hand  away,  shaking  it  in  the 
air. 

"  No,  that  I  can't  do." 

"  For  God's  sake,  come  to  me.  I  am  dying. 
Oh!" 

"Must  I  be  lost?  No!  I'll  come  to  you 
presently,"  he  said,  opening  the  door.  And  with- 
out looking  at  her  he  passed  through  the  room  to 
the  porch  where  he  used  to  chop  wood.  He  felt 
about  to  find  the  block  and  the  axe  which  were 
leaning  against  the  wall. 


5o  FATHER  SERGIUS 

"  Presently!  "  he  said,  and  taking  the  axe  in  his 
right  hand,  he  laid  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand 
upon  the  block.  He  raised  the  axe  and  struck  at 
the  linger  below  the  second  joint.  The  finger 
flew  off  more  lightly  than  wood,  and  bounding 
up,  turned  over  on  the  edge  of  the  block  and 
then  on  to  the  floor.  Sergius  heard  that  sound 
before  he  realised  the  pain,  but  ere  he  could  re- 
cover his  senses  he  felt  a  burning  pain  and  the 
warmth  of  the  flowing  blood.  He  hastily  pressed 
the  end  of  his  cassock  to  the  maimed  finger, 
pressed  it  to  his  hip,  and  going  back  into  her 
room  stood  before  the  woman. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked  her  in  a  low 
voice. 

She  looked  at  his  pale  face  with  its  trembling 
cheeks  and  felt  ashamed.  She  jumped  up, 
grasped  her  fur,  and  throwing  it  around  her  shoul- 
ders tucked  herself  up  in  it. 

"I  was  in  pain  —  I've  taken  cold  —  I  — 
Father  Sergius  —  I  — " 

He  turned  his  eyes,  which  were  shining  with  the 
quiet  light  of  joy  upon  her,  and  said, — 

"  Dear  sister,  why  have  you  desired  to  lose 
your  immortal  soul?  Temptation  must  come  into 
the  world,  but  woe  to  him  by  whom  temptation 
cometh.      Pray  that  God  may  forgive  us  both." 

She  listened  and  looked  at  him.     Suddenly  she 


FATHER  SERGIUS  51 

heard  the  sound  of  something  dripping.  She 
looked  closely  and  saw  that  blood  was  dropping 
from  his  hand  on  to  his  cassock. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  your  hand?  " 

She  remembered  the  sound  she  had  heard,  and 
seizing  the  little  ikon  lamp  ran  out  to  the  porch; 
there  on  the  floor  she  saw  the  bloody  finger. 

She  returned  with  her  face  paler  than  his,  and 
wanted  to  say  something.  But  he  went  silently 
to  his  little  apartment  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said.  "  How  can  I  atone 
for  my  sin?  " 

11  Go." 

"  Let  me  bind  your  wound." 

"  Go  hence." 

She  dressed  hurriedly  and  silently  and  sat  in 
her  furs  waiting. 

The  sound  of  little  bells  reached  her  from  out- 
side. 

"  Father  Sergius,  forgive  me." 

"  Go  —  God  will  forgive  you." 

"  Father  Sergius,  I  will  change  my  life.  Do 
not  forsake  me." 

"Go." 

"  Forgive  —  and  bless  me  !  " 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and 
of  the  Holy  Ghost,"  she  heard  from  behind  the 
door.      "  Go." 


52  FATHER  SERGIUS 

She  sobbed  and  went  out  from  the  cell. 

The  lawyer  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  see  I  have  lost.  There's 
no  help  for  it.     Where  will  you  sit?" 

"  I  don't  care." 

She  took  a  seat  in  the  sledge  and  did  not  speak 
a  word  till  they  reached  home. 

A  year  later  she  entered  a  convent  as  a  novice 
and  led  a  life  of  severe  discipline  under  the  guid- 
ance of  hermit  R who  wrote  her  letters  at 

long  intervals. 


IV 


Another  seven  years  Father  Sergius  lived  as  a 
hermit.  In  the  beginning  he  accepted  a  great 
part  of  what  people  used  to  bring  him  —  tea, 
sugar,  white  bread,  milk,  clothes,  and  wood. 

But  as  time  went  on  he  led  a  life  of  ever  greater 
austerity.  Refusing  anything  that  could  be 
thought  superfluous,  he  finally  accepted  nothing 
but  rye  bread  once  a  week.  All  that  was  brought 
to  him  he  gave  to  the  poor  who  visited  him. 

His  entire  time  was  spent  in  his  cell  in  prayer 
or  in  conversation  with  visitors  whose  number 
continually  increased. 

Father  Sergius  appeared  in  church  only  three 
times  a  year,  and  when  it  was  necessary  he  went 
out  to  fetch  water  and  wood. 

After  the  episode  with  Madame  Makovkin,  the 
change  he  effected  in  her  life,  and  her  taking  the 
veil,  the  fame  of  Father  Sergius  increased.  Vis- 
itors came  in  greater  and  greater  numbers,  and 
monks  came  to  live  in  his  neighbourhood.  A 
church  was  built  there,  and  a  hostelry.  Fame,  as 
usual,  exaggerated  his  feats.  People  came  from 
53 


54  FATHER  SERGIUS 

a  great  distance  and  began  bringing  invalids  to 
him  in  the  belief  that  he  could  heal  them. 

His  first  cure  happened  in  the  eighth  year  of 
his  seclusion.  He  actually  healed  a  boy  of  four- 
teen brought  to  him  by  his  mother  who  insisted 
on  Father  Sergius  putting  his  hand  on  the  child's 
head.  The  idea  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
he  could  heal  the  sick.  He  would  have  regarded 
such  a  thought  as  a  great  sin  of  pride. 

But  the  mother  who  brought  the  boy  never 
ceased  imploring  him,  on  her  knees. 

"  Why  wouldn't  he  help  her  son  when  he 
healed  other  people?"  she  asked,  and  again  be- 
sought him  in  the  name  of  Christ. 

When  Father  Sergius  replied  that  only  God 
could  heal,  she  said  she  wanted  him  only  to  lay 
his  hands  on  his  head  and  pray. 

Father  Sergius  refused  and  went  back  to  his 
cell.  But  next  morning — for  this  happened  in 
the  autumn  and  the  nights  were  already  cold  — 
coming  out  of  his  cell  to  fetch  water,  he  saw  the 
same  mother  with  her  child,  the  same  boy  of 
fourteen,  and  heard  the  same  petitions. 

Father  Sergius  remembered  the  parable  of  the 
righteous  judge,  and  contrary  to  his  first  instinct 
that  he  must  indubitably  refuse,  he  began  to  pray, 
and  prayed  until  a  resolve  formed  itself  in  his 
soul.     This  decision  was  that  he  must  accede  to 


FATHER  SERGIUS  55 

the  woman's  request,  and  that  her  faith  was  suffi- 
cient to  save  her  child.  As  for  him,  Father  Ser- 
gius,  he  would  be  in  that  case  but  the  worthless 
instrument  chosen  by  God. 

Returning  to  the  mother,  Father  Sergius  yielded 
to  her  request,  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  head  and 
prayed. 

The  mother  left  with  her  son.  In  a  month  the 
boy  was  cured,  and  the  fame  of  the  holy  healing 
power  of  "  old  Father  Sergius,"  as  he  was  called 
then,  spread  abroad.  From  that  time  not  a  week 
passed  without  sick  people  coming  to  Father  Ser- 
gius. 

Complying  with  the  requests  of  some,  he  could 
not  refuse  the  rest;  he  laid  his  hands  on  them  and 
prayed.  Many  were  healed  and  his  fame  be- 
came more  and  more  widespread. 

Having  thus  passed  seven  years  in  the  monas- 
tery and  many  years  in  the  hermitage,  he  looked 
now  like  an  old  man.  He  had  a  long  grey  beard, 
and  his  hair  had  grown  thin. 


Now  Father  Sergius  had  for  weeks  been  haunted 
by  one  relentless  thought,  whether  it  was  right  for 
him  to  have  acquiesced  in  a  state  of  things  not  so 
much  created  by  himself  as  by  the  archimandrite 
and  the  abbot. 

This  state  of  things  had  begun  after  the  heal- 
ing of  the  boy  of  fourteen.  Since  that  time  Ser- 
gius felt  that  each  passing  month,  each  week  and 
each  day,  his  inner  life  had  somehow  been  de- 
stroyed and  a  merely  external  life  had  been  sub- 
stituted for  it.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  turned 
inside  out.  Sergius  saw  that  he  was  a  means  of 
attracting  visitors  and  patrons  to  the  monastery, 
and  that,  therefore,  the  authorities  of  the  monas- 
tery tried  to  arrange  matters  in  such  a  way  that  he 
might  be  most  profitable  to  them.  For  instance, 
he  had  no  chance  of  doing  any  work.  Everything 
was  provided  that  he  could  require,  and  the  only 
thing  they  asked  was  that  he  should  not  refuse 
his  blessing  to  the  visitors  who  came  to  seek  it. 
For  his  convenience  days  were  appointed  on  which 
he  should  receive  them.  A  reception  room  was 
arranged  for -men;  and  a  place  was  also  enclosed 
56 


FATHER  SERGIUS  57 

by  railings  in  order  that  the  crowds  of  women 
who  came  to  him  should  not  overwhelm  him,  a 
place  where  he  could  bestow  his  blessing  upon 
those  who  came. 

When  he  was  told  that  he  was  necessary  to 
men,  and  that  if  he  would  follow  the  rule  of 
Christ's  love,  he  could  not  refuse  them  when 
they  desired  to  see  him,  and  that  his  holding  aloof 
from  them  would  be  cruel,  he  could  not  but  agree. 

But  the  more  he  gave  himself  up  to  such  an 
existence  the  more  he  felt  his  inner  life  trans- 
formed into  an  external  one.  He  felt  the  fount 
of  living  water  drying  up  within  him;  and  that 
everything  he  did  now  was  performed  more  and 
more  for  man  and  less  for  God.  Whatever  he 
did,  whether  admonishing  or  simply  blessing,  or 
praying  for  the  sick,  or  giving  advice  on  the  con- 
duct of  life,  or  listening  to  expressions  of  grati- 
tude from  those  he  had  helped,  or  healed  (as  they 
say)  or  instructed  or  advised,  he  could  not  help 
feeling  a  certain  pleasure  when  they  expressed 
their  gratitude  to  him.  Neither  could  he  be  in- 
different to  the  results  of  his  activity,  nor  to  his 
influence.  He  now  thought  himself  a  shining 
light.  But  the  more  he  harboured  that  idea,  the 
more  he  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  the  divine 
light  of  truth  which  had  previously  burned  within 
him  was  flickering  and  dying. 


5 8  FATHER  SERGIUS 

"  How  much  of  what  I  do  is  done  for  God  and 
how  much  for  man?"  That  was  the  question 
that  tormented  him.  Not  that  he  could  not  find 
an  answer  to  it,  but  he  dared  not  give  an  answer. 
He  felt  deep  down  in  his  soul  that  the  devil  had 
somehow  changed  all  his  work  for  God  into  work 
for  man.  Because  just  as  it  had  formerly  been 
hard  for  him  to  be  torn  from  solitude,  now  soli- 
tude itself  was  hard.  He  was  often  wearied  with 
visitors,  but  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  en- 
joyed their  presence  and  rejoiced  in  the  praise 
which  was  heaped  on  him. 

There  came  a  time  when  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  go  away,  to  hide.  He  even  thought  out  a 
plan.  He  got  ready  a  peasant  shirt  and  peasant 
trousers,  a  coat  and  a  cap.  He  explained  that 
he  wanted  them  to  give  to  the  poor,  and  he  kept 
these  clothes  in  his  cell,  thinking  how  he  would 
one  day  put  them  on  and  cut  his  hair,  and  go 
away.  First  he  would  take  a  train  and  travel  for 
about  three  hundred  miles.  Then  he  would  get 
out  and  walk  from  village  to  village.  He  asked 
an  old  soldier  how  he  tramped;  if  people  gave 
alms,  and  whether  they  admitted  wayfarers  into 
their  houses.  The  soldier  told  him  where  peo- 
ple were  most  charitable,  and  where  they  would 
take  a  wanderer  in  for  the  night,  and  Father  Ser- 
gius  decided  to  act  on  his  advice.      One  night,  he 


FATHER  SERGIUS  59 

even  put  on  those  clothes  and  was  about  to  go. 
But  he  did  not  know  whicli  was  best,  to  remain 
or  to  run  away.  For  a  time  he  was  undecided. 
Then  the  state  of  indecision  passed.  He  grew  ac- 
customed to  the  devil  and  yielded  to  him;  and  the 
peasant  clothes  only  served  to  remind  him  of 
thoughts  and  feelings  that  were  no  more. 

Crowds  flocked  to  him  increasingly  from  day  to 
day,  and  he  had  less  and  less  time  for  prayers  and 
for  renewing  his  spiritual  strength.  Sometimes, 
in  his  brighter  moments,  he  thought  he  was  like 
a  place  where  a  brook  had  once  been.  There 
had  been  a  quiet  stream  of  living  water  which 
flowed  out  of  him  and  through  him,  he  thought. 
That  had  been  real  life,  the  time  when  she  had 
tempted  him.  He  always  thought  with  ecstasy 
of  that  night  and  of  her  who  was  now  Mother 
Agnes.  She  had  tasted  of  that  pure  water. 
Since  then  the  water  had  hardly  been  given  time 
to  collect  before  those  who  were  thirsty  arrived 
in  crowds,  pushing  one  another  aside,  and  they 
had  trodden  down  the  little  brook  until  nothing 
but  mud  was  left.  So  he  thought  in  his  clearer 
moments;  but  his  ordinary  state  of  mind  was 
weariness  and  a  sort  of  tenderness  for  himself 
because  of  that  weariness. 

It  was  spring,  the  eve  of  a  festal  day.  Father 
Sergius  celebrated  Vespers  in  the  church  in  the 


60  FATHER  SERGIUS 

cave.  There  were  as  many  people  as  the  place 
could  hold  —  about  twenty  altogether.  They  all 
belonged  to  the  better  classes,  rich  merchants  and 
such  like.  Father  Sergius  admitted  every  one  to 
his  church,  but  a  selection  was  made  by  the  monk 
appointed  to  serve  him  and  by  a  man  on  duty 
who  was  sent  to  the  hermitage  every  day  from  the 
monastery.  A  crowd  of  about  eighty  pilgrims, 
chiefly  women,  stood  outside,  waiting  for  Father 
Sergius  to  come  out  and  bless  them.  In  that  part 
of  the  service,  when  he  went  to  the  tomb  of  his 
predecessor  to  bless  it,  he  felt  faint,  and  stag- 
gered, and  would  have  fallen  had  it  not  been  for 
a  merchant  who  served  as  deacon  who  caught 
him. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?  Father  Ser- 
gius, dear  Father  Sergius!  O  God!"  exclaimed 
a  woman's  voice.      "  He  is  as  white  as  a  sheet!  " 

But  Father  Sergius  pulled  himself  together  and 
though  still  very  pale,  pushed  aside  the  deacon 
and  the  merchant  and  resumed  the  prayers. 
Father  Serafian,  the  deacon,  and  the  acolytes  and 
a  lady,  Sophia  Ivanovna,  who  always  lived 
close  by  the  hermitage  to  attend  on  Father 
Sergius,  begged  him  to  bring  the  service  to  an 
end. 

"  No,  there's  nothing  the  matter,"  said  Father 
Sergius,    faintly  smiling   from   beneath  his  mous- 


FATHER  SERGIUS  61 

tache  and  continuing  his  prayers.  "  Ah,  that  is 
the  way  of  saints,"  he  thought. 

"A  holy  man  —  an  angel  of  God,"  he  heard 
Sophia  Ivanovna  and  the  merchant  who  had  sup- 
ported him  a  moment  before  murmur.  He  did 
not  heed  their  entreaties,  but  went  on  with  the 
service.  Crowding  one  another  as  before,  they 
all  filed  through  narrow  passages  back  into  the 
little  church  where  Father  Sergius  completed  ves- 
pers, merely  curtailing  the  service  a  little.  Di- 
rectly after  this,  having  pronounced  the  benedic- 
tion on  those  present,  he  sat  down  outside  on  a 
little  bench  beneath  an  elm  tree  at  the  entrance  to 
the  cave.  He  wanted  to  rest ;  to  breathe  fresh 
air.  He  felt  the  need  of  it;  but  the  moment  he 
appeared,  a  crowd  of  people  rushed  to  him  so- 
liciting his  blessing,  his  advice,  and  his  help.  In 
the  crowd  was  a  number  of  women,  pilgrims  going 
from  one  holy  place  to  another,  from  one  holy 
man  to  another,  ever  in  ecstasy  before  each  sanc- 
tuary and  before  each  saint. 

Father  Sergius  knew  this  common,  cold,  irre- 
ligious, unemotional  type.  As  for  the  men  in  the 
crowd,  they  were  for  the  most  part  retired  sol- 
diers, long  unaccustomed  to  a  settled  life,  and 
most  of  them  were  poor,  drunken  old  men  who 
tramped  from  monastery  to  monastery  merely  for 
a  living.     The  dull  peasantry  also  nocked  there, 


62  FATHER  SERGIUS 

men  and  women,  with  their  selfish  requirements 
seeking  healing  or  advice  in  their  little  daily  in- 
terests; how  their  daughters  should  be  married, 
or  a  shop  hired,  or  land  bought,  or  how  a  woman 
could  atone  for  a  child  she  had  lain  over  in  sleep 
and  killed,  or  for  a  child  she  had  borne  out  of 
wedlock. 

All  this  was  an  old  story  to  Father  Sergius  and 
did  not  interest  him.  He  knew  he  would  hear 
nothing  new  from  them.  The  spectacle  of  their 
faces  could  not  arouse  any  religious  emotion  in 
him.  But  he  liked  to  look  at  them  as  a  crowd 
which  was  in  need  of  his  benediction  and  revered 
his  words.  This  made  him  like  the  crowd,  al- 
though he  found  them  fatiguing  and  tiresome. 

Father  Serafian  began  to  disperse  the  people 
saying  that  Father  Sergius  was  weary.  But 
Father  Sergius  recollected  the  words  of  the  Gos- 
pel, "  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  unto  me 
and  forbid  them  not,"  and  touched  at  his  recol- 
lection of  the  passage  he  permitted  them  to  ap- 
proach. He  rose,  walked  to  the  little  railing  be- 
yond which  the  crowd  had  gathered,  and  began  to 
bless  them,  but  his  answers  to  their  questions  were 
so  faint  that  he  was  moved  at  hearing  himself. 

Despite  his  wish  to  receive  them  all,  it  was 
too  much  for  him.  Everything  grew  dark  again 
before  his  eyes,  and  he  staggered  and  grasped  the 


FATHER  SERGIUS  63 

railings.  He  felt  the  blood  rushing  to  his  head, 
and  grew  pale  and  then  scarlet. 

"  I  must  leave  the  rest  till  to-morrow,  I  can  do 
no  more  now,"  he  said,  and  pronouncing  a  gen- 
eral benediction,  returned  to  the  bench. 

The  merchant  supported  him  again,  and  taking 
him  by  the  arm  assisted  him  to  be  seated.  Voices 
exclaimed  in  the  crowd, — 

"  Father,  dear  father,  don't  forsake  us.  We 
are  lost  without  you." 

The  merchant,  having  helped  Father  Sergius 
to  the  bench  under  the  elm  tree,  took  upon  him- 
self the  duties  of  policeman  and  began  energet- 
ically to  disperse  the  crowd.  It  was  true  he  spoke 
in  a  low  voice  so  that  Father  Sergius  could  not 
overhear,  but  he  spoke  very  decidedly  and  in  an 
angry  tone. 

"Get  away,  get  away,  I  say!  He  has  blessed 
you.  What  else  do  you  want?  Get  along!  or 
you'll  catch  it.  Move  on  there !  Get  along 
there,  old  woman,  with  your  dirty  rags.  Go  on! 
Where  do  you  think  you're  going;  I  told  you  it 
was  finished.  To-morrow's  coming,  but  to-day 
he's  done,  I  tell  you!  " 

"Dear  father!  I  only  want  to  look  on  his 
dear  face  with  my  own  little  eyes,"  said  an  old 
woman. 

"  Little  eyes  indeed!     You  don't  get  in  here!  " 


64  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Father  Sergius  noticed  that  the  merchant  was 
doing  it  rather  too  thoroughly,  and  spoke  to  his 
attendant  saying  the  crowd  was  not  to  be  turned 
away.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  crowd 
would  be  dispersed  all  the  same,  and  he  desired 
to  remain  alone  and  rest,  but  he  sent  his  attendant 
with  the  order  merely  to  make  an  impression. 

"Well  —  well  —  I'm  not  turning  them  away; 
I'm  only  talking  to  them,"  answered  the  merchant. 
"  They'll  drive  the  man  to  death.  They  have  no 
mercy.  They're  only  thinking  of  themselves. 
No,  I  say!  Get  away!  To-morrow!"  and  he 
drove  them  all  away. 

The  merchant  took  all  this  trouble  because  he 
loved  order  and  liked  to  turn  people  away  and 
abuse  them;  but  more  because  he  wanted  to  have 
Father  Sergius  to  himself.  He  was  a  widower 
and  had  an  only  daughter,  an  invalid  and  unmar- 
ried. He  had  brought  her  fourteen  hundred 
miles  to  Father  Sergius  to  be  healed.  During  the 
two  years  of  the  girl's  illness  he  had  taken  her  to 
various  cures.  First  to  the  university  clinic  in 
the  principal  town  of  the  province,  but  this  was 
not  of  much  use;  then  to  a  peasant  in  the  prov- 
ince of  Samara,  who  did  her  a  little  good.  After- 
wards he  took  her  to  a  doctor  in  Moscow  and 
paid  him  a  huge  fee;  but  this  did  not  help  at  all. 
Then   he  was  told  that  Father  Sergius  wrought 


FATHER  SERGIUS  65 

cures,  so  he  brought  her  to  him.  Consequently 
when  he  had  scattered  the  crowd  he  approached 
Father  Sergius,  and  falling  upon  his  knees  with- 
out any  warning,  he  said  in  a  loud  voice, — 

"Holy  Father!  Bless  my  afflicted  child  and 
heal  her  of  her  sufferings.  I  venture  to  pros- 
trate myself  at  your  holy  feet,"  and  he  put  one 
hand  on  another,  palms  up,  cup-wise.  All  this 
he  did  as  if  it  were  something  distinctly  and  rig- 
idly appointed  by  law  and  usage;  as  if  it  were 
the  sole  and  precise  method  by  which  a  man 
should  request  the  healing  of  his  daughter.  He 
did  it  with  such  conviction  that  even  Sergius  felt 
for  the  moment  that  that  was  just  the  right  way. 
However  he  bade  him  rise  from  his  knees  and 
tell  him  what  the  trouble  was.  The  merchant 
said  that  his  daughter,  a  girl  of  twenty-two,  had 
fallen  ill  two  years  before,  afler  the  sudden  death 
of  her  mother.  She  just  said  "Ah!  "  as  he  put 
it,  and  went  out  of  her  mind.  He  had  brought 
her  fourteen  hundred  miles,  and  she  was  waiting 
in  the  hostelry  till  Father  Sergius  could  receive 
her.  She  never  went  out  by  day,  being  afraid 
of  the  sunlight,  but  only  after  dusk. 

"  Is  she  very  weak?  "  asked  Father  Sergius. 

"  No,  she  has  no  special  weakness,  but  she's 
rather  stout,  and  the  doctor  says  she's  neuras- 
thenic.    If  you  will  just  let  me  fetch  her,  Father 


66  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Sergius,  I'll  be  back  with  her  in  a  minute.  Re- 
vive, O  holy  father,  the  heart  of  a  parent,  restore 
his  line,  and  save  my  afflicted  offspring  with  your 
prayers!"  and  the  merchant  fell  down  on  his 
knees  again  and  bending  sideways  with  his  head 
over  his  palms,  which  appeared  to  hold  little  heaps 
of  something,  remained  like  a  figure  in  stone. 
Father  Sergius  again  told  him  to  get  up,  and 
thinking  once  more  how  trying  his  work  was,  and 
how  patiently  he  bore  it  in  spite  of  everything, 
sighed  heavily.  After  a  few  moments'  silence, 
he  said : 

"  Well,  bring  her  to-night.  I  will  pray  over 
her.  But  now  I  am  weary,"  and  he  closed  his 
eyes.      "  i  will  send  for  you." 

The  merchant  went  away,  stepping  on  tiptoe, 
which  made  his  boots  creak  still  louder,  and 
Father  Sergius  remained  alone. 

Father  Sergius's  life  was  filled  with  church 
services  and  with  visitors;  but  this  day  was  par- 
ticularly difficult.  In  the  morning  an  important 
official  had  come  to  hold  a  long  conference  with 
him.  Then  a  lady  came  with  her  son.  The  son 
was  a  young  professor,  an  unbeliever,  and  his 
mother,  who  was  ardently  religious  and  devoted 
to  Father  Sergius,  brought  him  to  Father  Sergius 
that  he  might  talk  to  him.  The  talk  was  very 
trying.     The  young  man  evidently  did  not  wish 


FATHER  SERGIUS  67 

to  have  a  discussion  with  the  monk,  and  just 
agreed  with  him  in  everything,  as  with  an  in- 
ferior. Father  Sergius  saw  that  the  youth  was 
an  infidel,  but  that  he  had  nevertheless  a  clear  and 
tranquil  conscience.  The  memory  of  the  conver- 
sation was  now  unpleasant  to  him. 

"Won't  you  eat  something,  Father  Sergius?" 
asked  the  attendant. 

"Very  well  —  bring  me  something." 

The  attendant  went  to  a  little  hut  built  ten 
paces  from  the  cave,  and  Father  Sergius  remained 
alone. 

The  time  was  long  past  when  Father  Sergius 
lived  alone,  doing  everything  for  himself  and 
having  but  a  holy  wafer  and  bread  for  nourish- 
ment. He  had  been  warned  long  ago  that  he 
had  no  right  to  be  careless  of  his  health  and  he 
was  given  wholesome  meals,  although  of  Lenten 
quality.  He  did  not  eat  much,  but  more  than  he 
had  done;  and  sometimes  he  even  felt  a  pleasure 
in  eating;  the  disgust  and  the  sense  of  sin  he  had 
experienced  before  was  gone. 

He  took  some  gruel  and  had  a  cup  of  tea  with 
half  a  roll  of  white  bread.  The  attendant  went 
away  while  he  remained  alone  on  the  bench  under 
the  elm-tree.  It  was  a  beautiful  evening  in  May. 
The  leaves  of  the  birches,  the  aspens,  the  elms, 
the  alder  bushes,  and  the  oaks  were  just  beginning 


68  FATHER  SERGIUS 

to  blossom.  The  alder  bushes  behind  the  elms 
were  still  in  full  bloom.  A  nightingale  was  sing- 
ing near  at  hand,  and  two  or  three  more  in  the 
bushes  down  by  the  river  trilled  and  warbled. 
From  the  river  came  the  songs  of  working-men, 
perhaps  on  their  way  home  from  their  labour. 
The  sun  was  setting  behind  the  forest  and  was 
throwing  little  broken  rays  of  light  among  the 
leaves.  This  side  was  bright  green  and  the  other 
side  was  dark.  Beetles  were  flying  about  and, 
colliding  together,  were  falling  to  the  ground. 
After  supper  Father  Sergius  began  to  repeat  a 
prayer  mentally: 

"  O  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  God,  have 
mercy  on  us,"  and  then  he  read  a  psalm.  Sud- 
denly, in  the  middle  of  the  psalm  a  sparrow  flew 
out  from  a  bush  on  the  ground,  and  hopping 
along,  came  to  him;  then  it  flew  away  frightened. 
He  was  reading  a  prayer  that  bore  upon  renun- 
ciation of  the  world  and  hastened  to  get  to  the 
end  of  it  in  order  that  he  might  send  for  the  mer- 
chant and  his  daughter.  He  was  interested  in 
the  daughter  because  she  offered  a  sort  of  diver- 
sion, and  also  because  she  and  her  father  thought 
him  a  saint,  a  saint  whose  prayer  was  efficacious. 
He  repudiated  the  idea,  but  in  the  depths  of  his 
soul  he  nevertheless  concurred.     He  often  won- 


FATHER  SERGIUS  69 

dered  how  he,  Sergius  Kasatsky,  had  contrived  to 
become  such  an  extraordinary  saint  and  worker  ol 
miracles,  but  that  it  was  a  fact  he  did  not  doubt. 
He  could  not  fail  to  believe  in  the  miracles  he 
saw  with  his  own  eyes,  beginning  with  the  sick  boy 
and  ending  with  this  last  old  woman  who  had  re- 
covered her  sight  through  his  prayers.  Strange 
as  it  was,  it  was  a  fact.  Accordingly  the  mer- 
chant's daughter  interested  him  as  a  new  individ- 
ual that  had  faith  in  him,  and  besides,  as  an 
occasion  of  bearing  witness  to  his  healing  power 
and  to  his  fame. 

"  People  come  thousands  of  miles.  Papers 
talk  about  it.  The  emperor  knows.  All  Europe 
knows  —  all  godless  Europe."  And  then  he  felt 
ashamed  of  his  vanity  and  began  to  pray: 

"  God,  King  of  Heaven,  Comforter,  True  Soul, 
come  into  —  inspire  me  —  and  cleanse  me  from 
all  sin,  and  save,  O  All-merciful,  my  soul. 
Cleanse  me  from  the  sin  of  worldly  vanity  that 
has  overtaken  me,"  he  said,  remembering  how 
often  he  had  made  that  prayer  and  how  vain  it 
had  been.  His  prayers  worked  miracles  for 
others,  but  as  for  himself  God  had  not  granted 
him  strength  to  conquer  this  petty  passion.  He 
remembered  his  prayers  at  the  commencement  of 
his  seclusion  when  he  asked  for  the  grace  of  pur- 


7o  FATHER  SERGIUS 

ity,  humility,  and  love,  and  how  it  seemed  to 
him  at  that  time  that  God  heard  his  prayers.  He 
had  retained  his  purity  and  had  hewn  off  his  fin- 
ger. He  raised  the  stump  of  the  finger  with  folds 
of  skin  on  it  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it.  It  seemed 
to  him  now,  that  at  that  time  when  he  had  been 
filled  with  disgust  at  his  own  sinfulness,  he  had 
been  humble;  and  that  he  had  also  possessed  love. 
He  recalled  also  the  tender  feelings  with  which 
he  had  received  the  old  drunken  soldier  who  had 
come  to  ask  alms  of  him;  and  how  he  had  received 
her.  And  now;  he  asked  himself  whether  he 
loved  anybody;  whether  he  loved  Sophia  Ivan- 
ovna  or  Father  Serafian;  whether  he  had  any  feel- 
ing of  love  for  those  who  had  come  to  him  that 
day.  He  asked  himself  if  he  had  felt  any  love 
toward  the  learned  young  man  with  whom  he  had 
held  that  instructive  discussion  with  the  object 
only  of  showing  off  his  own  intelligence  and  prov- 
ing that  he  had  not  fallen  behind  in  knowledge. 

He  wanted  love  from  them,  and  rejoiced  in  it; 
but  felt  no  love  himself  for  them.  Now  he  had 
neither  love  nor  humility.  He  was  pleased  to 
hear  that  the  merchant's  daughter  was  twenty- 
two,  and  was  anxious  to  know  if  she  was  good- 
looking.  When  he  inquired  if  she  was  weak,  he 
only  wanted  to  know  if  she  had  feminine  charm. 
"  Is    it    true    that    I    have    fallen    so    low?  "    he 


FATHER  SERGIUS  71 

thought.  "  God  help  me !  Restore  my  strength 
—  restore  me,  0  God  my  Saviour!"  and  he 
clasped  his  hands  and  began  to  pray. 

The  nightingales  sang,  a  beetle  flew  at  him  and 
crept  along  the  back  of  his  neck.  He  brushed  it 
away. 

"  But  does  He  exist?  What  if  I  am  knocking 
at  a  house  which  is  locked  from  without.  The  bar 
is  on  the  door,  and  we  can  see  it.  Nightingales, 
beetles,  nature  are  the  bar  to  our  understanding. 
That  young  man  was  perhaps  right."  He  began 
to  pray  aloud,  and  prayed  long,  till  all  these 
thoughts  disappeared  and  he  became  calm  and 
firm  in  the  faith.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  told  the 
attendant  to  say  that  the  merchant  might  now 
come  with  his  daughter. 

The  merchant  came,  leading  his  daughter  by 
the  arm,  and  brought  her  to  the  cell,  where  he 
left  her. 

The  daughter  was  pale,  with  fair  hair.  She 
was  very  short,  and  had  a  frightened,  childish 
face  and  full  figure.  Father  Sergius  remained 
seated  on  the  bench  at  the  entrance.  When  the 
girl  passed  him  and  stood  near  him  he  blessed 
her,  feeling  aghast  because  of  the  way  in  which 
he  looked  at  her  figure.  As  she  passed  by  him, 
he  felt  a  sting.  He  saw  by  her  face  that  she  was 
sensual  and  feeble  minded.     He  rose  and  entered 


72  FATHER  SERGIUS 

his  cell.  She  was  sitting  on  a  stool  waiting  for 
him,  and  when  he  entered  she  rose. 

""I  want  to  go  back  to  my  papa,"  she  said. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  said.  "  Where  do  you 
feel  pain?  " 

"  I  feel  pain  all  over,"  she  answered,  and  sud- 
denly her  face  brightened  with  a  smile. 

"  You  will  regain  your  health,"  he  said. 
11  Pray." 

"What's  the  use?  I've  prayed.  It  doesn't 
help,"  and  she  continued  smiling.  "  I  wish  you 
would  pray  and  lay  your  hands  on  me.  I  saw 
you  in  a  dream." 

"How  so?" 

"  I  saw  you  put  your  hand  on  my  chest." 

She  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  breast. 

"  Here." 

He  yielded  his  right  hand  to  her. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked,  his  whole 
body  shaking,  and  feeling  that  he  was  overcome 
and  could  not  control  his  instinct. 

"Marie,  why?" 

She  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  then 
put  her  arm  around  his  waist  and  pressed 
him. 

"Marie,  what  are  you  doing?"  he  said. 
"You  are  a  devil,  Marie!" 

"  Oh,  perhaps. 


FATHER  SERGIUS  73 

And  embracing  him,  she  sat  down  at  his  side 
on  the  bed. 

At  dawn  he  went  out  of  the  door.  Had  all 
this  really  happened?  Her  father  would  come. 
She  would  tell.  "  She's  a  devil.  But  what  have 
/  done?  Oh,  there  is  the  axe  which  I  used  to 
chop  oft  my  finger." 

He  took  the  axe  and  went  back  to  the  cell. 

The  attendant  came  toward  him.  "  Do  you 
want  some  wood  cut?     Give  me  the  axe." 

He  gave  him  the  axe,  and  entered  the  cell. 
She  lay  asleep.  He  looked  on  her  with  horror. 
Going  back  into  the  cell  he  put  on  the  peasant 
clothes,  seized  the  scissors,  cut  his  hair,  and  then, 
issuing  forth,  took  the  path  down  the  hill  to  the 
river,  where  he  had  not  been  for  four  years. 

The  road  ran  along  the  river.  He  went  by  it, 
walking  till  noon.  Then  he  went  into  a  cornfield 
and  lay  among  the  corn.  Toward  evening  he  ap- 
proached a  village,  but  did  not  enter  it.  He 
went  again  to  the  river,  to  a  cliff. 

It  was  early  morning,  half  an  hour  before  sun- 
rise. All  was  grey  and  mournful  around  him, 
and  a  cold,  early  morning  wind  blew  from  the 
west. 

"  I  must  end  it  all.  There  is  no  God.  How 
can  I  do  it?     Throw  myself  in!      I   can  swim; 


74  FATHER  SERGIUS 

I  should  not  drown.     Hang  myself?     Yes;  just 

with  this  belt,  to  a  branch." 

This  seemed  so  feasible  and  so  easy  that  he 
wanted  to  pray,  as  he  always  did  in  moments  of 
distress.  But  there  was  nothing  to  pray  to.  God 
was  not.  He  dropped  down  on  his  elbow,  and 
such  a  longing  for  sleep  instantly  overcame  him 
that  he  couldn't  hold  his  head  up  with  his  arm 
any  longer.  Stretching  out  his  arm,  he  laid  his 
head  upon  it  and  went  to  sleep.  But  this  sleep 
lasted  only  a  moment.  He  woke  at  once,  and 
what  followed  was  half  dream  and  half  recol- 
lection. 

He  saw  himself  as  a  child  in  the  house  of  his 
mother  in  the  country.  A  carriage  was  approach- 
ing, and  out  of  it  stepped  Uncle  Nicholas  Sergei- 
vich,  with  a  long  black  beard  like  a  spade,  and 
with  him  a  slender  girl,  Pashinka,  with  large  soft 
eyes  and  a  timid,  pathetic  little  face.  This  girl 
was  taken  to  the  place  where  the  boys  were  play- 
ing, and  they  were  forced  to  play  with  her,  which 
was  very  tedious  indeed.  She  was  a  silly  little 
girl,  and  it  ended  in  their  making  fun  of  her,  and 
making  her  show  them  how  she  swam.  She  lay 
down  on  the  floor  and  went  through  the  motions. 
They  laughed  and  turned  her  into  ridicule;  which, 
when  she  became  aware  of  it,  made  her  blush  in 
patches.      She    looked    so    piteous    that    his    con- 


FATHER  SERGIUS  75 

science  pricked  him,  and  he  could  never  forget 
her  kind,  submissive,  tremulous  smile.  Sergius 
remembered  how  he  had  seen  her  since  then.  A 
long  time  ago,  just  before  he  became  a  monk,  she 
had  married  a  landowner  who  had  squandered  all 
her  fortune,  and  who  beat  her.  She  had  two  chil- 
dren, a  son  and  a  daughter;  but  the  son  died  when 
he  was  little,  and  Sergius  remembered  seeing  her 
very  wretched  after  that,  and  then  again  at  the 
monastery,  when  she  was  a  widow.  She  was  still 
just  the  same,  not  exactly  stupid,  but  insipid,  in- 
significant, and  piteous.  She  had  come  with  her 
daughter  and  her  daughter's  fiance.  They  were 
poor  at  that  time,  and  later  on  he  heard  that  she 
was  living  in  a  little  provincial  town  and  was  al- 
most destitute. 

"Why  does  she  come  into  my  head?"  he 
asked  himself,  but  still  he  could  not  help  thinking 
about  her.  "Where  is  she?  What  has  become 
of  her?  Is  she  as  unhappy  as  she  was  when  she 
had  to  show  us  how  she  swam  on  the  floor?  But 
what's  the  use  of  my  thinking  of  her  now?  My 
business  is  to  put  an  end  to  myself." 

Again  he  was  afraid,  and  again,  in  order  to 
spare  himself,  he  began  to  think  about  her.  Thus 
he  lay  a  long  time,  thinking  now  of  his  extraor- 
dinary end,  now  of  Pashinka.  She  seemed  some- 
how the  means  of  his  salvation.      At  last  he  fell 


76  FATHER  SERGIUS 

asleep,  and  in  his  dream  he  saw  an  angel,  who 
came  to  him  and  said  :  — 

"  Go  to  Pashinka.  Find  out  what  you  have  to 
do,  and  what  your  sin  is,  and  what  is  your  way 
of  salvation." 

He  awoke,  convinced  that  this  was  a  vision 
from  on  high.  He  rejoiced,  and  resolved  to  do 
as  he  was  told  in  the  dream.  He  knew  the  town 
where  she  lived,  three  hundred  miles  away,  so  he 
walked  to  that  place. 


VI 


Pashinka  was  no  longer  Pashinka.  She  had  be- 
come Praskovia  Mikhailovna,  old,  wrinkled,  and 
shrivelled,  the  mother-in-law  of  a  drunken  offi- 
cial, Mavrikiev  —  a  failure.  She  lived  in  the  lit- 
tle provincial  town  where  he  had  occupied  his  last 
position,  and  had  supported  the  family:  a  daugh- 
ter, a  nervous,  ailing  husband,  and  five  grand- 
children. Her  sole  means  of  supporting  them 
was  by  giving  music  lessons  to  the  daughters  of 
merchants  for  fifty  kopeks  an  hour.  She  had 
sometimes  four,  sometimes  five  lessons  a  day,  and 
earned  about  sixty  roubles  a  month.  They  all 
lived  for  the  moment  on  that  in  expectation  of  an- 
other situation.  She  had  sent  letters  to  all  her 
friends  and  relations,  asking  for  a  post  for  her 
son-in-law,  and  had  also  written  to  Sergius,  but 
the  letter  had  never  reached  him. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  Praskovia  Mikhailovna 
was  kneading  dough  for  currant  bread  such  as  the 
cook,  a  serf  on  her  father's  estate,  used  to  make, 
for  she  wanted  to  give  her  grandchildren  a  treat 
on  Sunday. 

77 


78  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Her  daughter  Masha  was  looking  after  her 
youngest  child,  and  the  eldest  boy  and  girl  were 
at  school.  As  for  her  husband,  he  had  not  slept 
that  night,  and  was  now  asleep.  Praskovia  Mik- 
hailovna  had  not  slept  well  either,  trying  to  ap- 
pease her  daughter's  anger  against  her  hus- 
band. 

She  saw  that  her  son-in-law,  being  a  weak 
character,  could  not  talk  or  act  differently,  and 
she  perceived  that  the  reproaches  of  his  wife 
availed  nothing.  All  her  energies  were  employed 
in  softening  these  reproaches.  She  did  not  want 
harsh  feelings  and  resentment  to  exist.  Physi- 
cally she  could  not  stand  a  condition  of  ill-will. 
It  was  clear  to  her  that  bitter  feelings  did  not 
mend  matters,  but  simply  made  them  worse.  She 
did  not  think  about  it.  Seeing  anger  made  her 
suffer  precisely  as  a  bad  odour  or  a  shrill  sound  or 
a  blow. 

She  was  just  showing  Lucaria,  the  servant,  how 
to  mix  the  dough  when  her  grandson,  Misha,  a 
boy  six  years  old,  with  little  crooked  legs  in  darned 
stockings,  ran  into  the  kitchen  looking  frightened. 

"  Grandmother,  a  dreadful  old  man  wants  to 
see  you !  " 

Lucaria  looked  out  of  the  door. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  it's  a  pilgrim." 

Praskovia  Mikhailovna  wiped  her  thin  elbows 


FATHER  SERGIUS  79 

with  her  hands,  and  then  her  hands  on  her  apron, 
and  was  about  to  go  into  the  room  to  get  five 
kopeks  out  of  her  purse,  when  she  remembered 
that  she  had  only  a  ten  kopek  piece,  so,  deciding 
to  give  bread  instead,  she  turned  to  the  cupboard. 
But  then  she  blushed  at  the  thought  of  having 
grudged  him  alms,  and  ordering  Lucaria  to  cut  a 
slice  of  bread,  went  to  fetch  the  ten  kopeks. 
"  That  serves  you  right,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  Now  you  must  give  twice  as  much." 

She  gave  both  bread  and  money  to  the  pilgrim 
with  apologies,  and  in  doing  so  she  was  not  at  all 
proud  of  her  generosity.  On  the  contrary,  she 
was  ashamed  of  having  given  so  little.  The  man 
had  such  an  imposing  appearance. 

In  spite  of  having  tramped  three  hundred  miles, 
begging  in  the  name  of  Christ,  and  being  nearly 
in  rags;  in  spite  of  having  grown  thin  and  weath- 
er-beaten, and  having  his  hair  cut,  and  wearing 
a  peasant  cap  and  boots;  in  spite,  also,  of  his  bow- 
ing with  great  humility,  Sergius  had  the  same  im- 
pressive appearance  which  had  attracted  every  one 
to  him.  Praskovia  Mikhailovna  did  not  recog- 
nise him.  How  could  she,  not  having  seen  him 
for  many  years? 

"  Excuse  this  humble  gift,  father.  Wouldn't 
you  like  something  to  eat?  " 

He  took  the  bread  and  money,  and  Praskovia 


80  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Mikhailovna  was  astonished  that  he  did  not  go, 
but  stood  looking  at  her. 

"  Pashinka,  I  have  come  to  you.  Won't  you 
take  me  in?  " 

Flis  beautiful  black  eyes  looked  at  her  intently, 
imploringly,  and  shone,  tears  starting;  and  his 
lips  quivered  painfully  under  the  grey  moustache. 

Praskovia  Mikhailovna  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
shrivelled  breast,  opened  her  mouth,  and  stared  at 
the  pilgrim  with  dilated  eyes. 

"It  can't  be  possible!  Steph  —  Sergius  — 
Father  Sergius !  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,"  said  Sergius  in  a  low  voice. 
"  But  no  longer  Sergius  or  Father  Sergius,  but  a 
great  sinner,  Stephen  Kasatsky  —  a  great  sinner, 
a  lost  sinner.     Take  me  in  —  help  me." 

"No,  it  can't  be  possible!  Such  great  humil- 
ity! Come?"  She  stretched  out  her  hand,  but 
he  did  not  take  it.     He  only  followed  her. 

But  where  could  she  lead  him  ?  They  had  very 
little  space.  She  had  a  tiny  little  room  for  her- 
self, hardly  more  than  a  closet,  but  even  that 
she  had  given  up  to  her  daughter,  and  now 
Masha  was  sitting  there  rocking  the  baby  to 
sleep. 

"  Please,  be  seated  here,"  she  said  to  Sergius, 
pointing  to  a  bench  in  the  kitchen.  He  sat  down 
at  once,  and  took  off,  with  an  evidently  accustomed 


FATHER  SERGIUS  81 

action,  the  straps  of  his  wallet  first  from  one  shoul- 
der and  then  from  the  other. 

"Heavens!  What  humility!  What  an  hon- 
our, and  now  — " 

Sergius  did  not  answer,  but  smiled  meekly,  lay- 
ing his  wallet  on  one  side. 

"  Masha,  do  you  know  who  this  is?"  And 
Praskovia  Mikhailovna  told  her  daughter  in  a 
whisper.  They  took  the  bed  and  the  cradle  out 
of  the  little  room,  and  made  it  ready  for  Sergius. 

Praskovia  Mikhailovna  led  him  in. 

"  Now  have  a  rest.  Excuse  this  humble  room. 
I  must  go." 

"Where?" 

"  I  have  lessons.  I'm  ashamed  to  say  I  teach 
music." 

"Music!  That  is  well.  But  just  one  thing, 
Praskovia  Mikhailovna.  I  came  to  you  with  an 
object.     Could  I  have  a  talk  with  you?  " 

"I  shall  be  happy.     Will  this  evening  do?" 

"  It  will.  One  thing  more.  Do  not  say  who  I 
am.  I  have  only  revealed  myself  to  you.  No 
one  knows  where  I  went,  and  no  one  need 
know." 

"  Oh,  but  I  told  my  daughter  — " 

"  Well,  ask  her  not  to  tell  any  one." 

Sergius  took  off  his  boots  and  slept  after  a 
sleepless  night  and  a  forty-mile  tramp. 


82  FATHER  SERGIUS 

When  Praskovia  Mikhailovna  returned  Sergius 
was  sitting  in  the  little  room  waiting  for  her. 
He  had  not  come  out  for  dinner,  but  had  some 
soup  and  gruel  which  Lucaria  brought  in  to  him. 

"  Why  did  you  return  earlier  than  you  said?" 
asked  Father  Sergius.  "  May  I  speak  to  you 
now?  " 

"  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  the  happiness 
of  having  such  a  guest!  I  only  missed  one  les- 
son. That  can  wait.  I  have  dreamed  for  a  long 
time  of  going  to  see  you.  I  wrote  to  you.  And 
now  this  good  fortune  !  " 

"  Pashinka,  please  —  listen  to  what  I  am  going 
to  tell  you,  as  if  it  were  a  confession;  as  if  it  were 
something  I  should  say  to  God  in  the  hour  of 
death.  Pashinka,  I  am  not  a  holy  man.  I  am 
a  vile  and  loathsome  sinner.  I  have  gone 
astray  through  pride,  and  I  am  the  vilest  of  the 
vile." 

Pashinka  stared  at  him.  She  believed  what  he 
said.  Then,  when  she  had  quite  taken  it  in,  she 
touched  his  hand  and  smiJed  sadly,   and  said, — 

"  Stevie,  perhaps  you  exaggerate." 

"  No,  Pashinka,  I  am  an  adulterer,  a  murderer, 
a  blasphemer,  a  cheat." 

"My  God,  what  does  he  mean?"  she  mut- 
tered. 

"  But  I  must  go  on  living.      I,  who  thought  I 


FATHER  SERGIUS  83 

knew  everything,  who  taught  others  how  to  live, 
I  know  nothing.      I  ask  you  to  teach  me." 

"O  Stevie!  You  are  laughing  at  me.  Why 
do  you  always  laugh  at  me?  " 

"Very  well;  have  it  as  you  will  that  I  am 
laughing  at  you.  Still,  tell  me  how  you  live,  and 
how  you  have  lived  your  life." 

"I?  But  I've  lived  a  very  bad  life,  the  worst 
life  possible.  Now  God  is  punishing  me,  and  I 
deserve  it.  And  I  am  so  miserable  now  —  so 
miserable!  " 

"  And  your  marriage  —  how  did  you  get  on?  " 

"  It  was  all  bad.  I  married  because  I  fell  in 
love  from  low  motives.  Father  didn't  want  me 
to,  but  I  wouldn't  listen  to  anything.  I  just  mar- 
ried. And  then,  instead  of  helping  my  husband, 
I  made  him  wretched  by  my  jealousy,  which  I 
couldn't  overcome." 

"  He  drank,  I  heard." 

"  Well,  but  I  didn't  give  him  any  peace.  I  re- 
proached him.  That's  a  disease.  He  couldn't 
stop  it.  I  remember  now  how  I  took  his  drink 
away  from  him.  We  had  such  frightful  scenes!  " 
She  looked  at  Kasatsky  with  pain  in  her  beauti- 
ful eyes  at  the  recollection. 

Kasatsky  called  to  mind  that  he  had  been  told 
that  her  husband  beat  Pashinka,  and  looking  at 
her  thin  withered  neck  with  veins  standing  out 


84  FATHER  SERGIUS 

behind  her  ears,  the  thin  coil  of  hair,  half  grey, 
half  auburn,  he  saw  it  all  just  as  it  happened. 

"  Then  I  was  left  alone  with  two  children,  and 
with  no  means." 

"  But  you  had  an  estate !  " 

"  Oh,  that  was  sold  when  Vasily  was  alive. 
And  the  money  was  —  spent.  We  had  to  live, 
and  I  didn't  know  how  to  work  —  like  all  the 
young  ladies  of  that  time.  I  was  worse  than  the 
rest  —  quite  helpless.  So  we  spent  everything  we 
had.  I  taught  the  children.  Masha  had  learnt 
something.  Then  Misha  fell  ill  when  he  was  in 
the  fourth  class  in  the  school,  and  God  took  him. 
Masha  fell  in  love  with  Vania,  my  son-in-law. 
He's  a  good  man  but  very  unfortunate.  He's 
ill." 

"  Mother,"  interrupted  her  daughter,  "  take 
Misha.     I  can't  be  everywhere." 

Praskov'ia  Mikhailovna  started,  rose,  and  step- 
ping quickly  in  her  worn  shoes,  went  out  of  the 
room  and  came  back  with  a  boy  of  two  in  her 
arms.  The  child  was  throwing  himself  back- 
wards and  grabbing  at  her  shawl. 

"Where  was  I?  Yes  —  he  had  a  very  good 
post  here,  and  such  a  good  chief,  too.  But  poor 
Vania  couldn't  go  on,  and  he  had  to  give  up  his 
position." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him?  " 


FATHER  SERGIUS  85 

"  Neurasthenia.  It's  such  a  horrid  illness. 
We  have  been  to  the  doctor,  but  he  ought  to  go 
away,  and  we  can't  afford  it.  Still,  I  hope  it  will 
pass.     He  doesn't  suffer  much  pain,  but — " 

"Lucaria!"  said  a  feeble  and  angry  voice. 
"  She's  always  sent  out  when  I  need  her. 
Mother!  " 

"  I'm  coming,"  said  Praskovia  Mikhailovna, 
again  interrupting  her  conversation.  "  You  see, 
he  hasn't  had  his  dinner  yet.  He  can't  eat  with 
us." 

She  went  out  and  arranged  something,  and 
came  back,  wiping  her  thin,  dark  hands. 

"  Well,  this  is  the  way  1  live.  I  complain,  and 
I'm  not  satisfied,  but,  thank  God,  all  my  grand- 
children are  such  nice  healthy  children,  and  life  is 
quite  bearable.  But  why  am  I  talking  about  my- 
self?" 

"  What  do  you  live  on?  " 

"  Why,  I  earn  a  little.  How  I  used  to  hate 
music !  and  now  it's  so  useful  to  me !  " 

Her  small  hand  lay  on  the  chest  of  drawers  that 
stood  beside  her  where  she  was  sitting,  and  she 
drummed  exercises  with  her  thin  fingers. 

"  How  much  are  you  paid  for  your  lessons?  " 

"  Sometimes  a  rouble,  sometimes  fifty  kopeks, 
and  sometimes  thirty.     They  are  all  so  kind  to 


86  FATHER  SERGIUS 

"And  do  your  pupils  get  on  well?"  asked 
Kasatsky,  smiling  faintly  with  his  eyes. 

Praskovia  Mikhailovna  did  not  believe  at  first 
that  he  was  asking  b.er  seriously,  and  looked  in- 
quiringly into  his  eyes. 

"  Some  ol  them  do,"  she  said.  "  I  have  one 
very  nice  pupil — the  butcher's  daughter.  Such 
a  good,  kind  girl.  It  I  were  a  clever  woman  I 
could  surely  use  my  lather's  inlluence  and  get  a 
position  for  my  son-in-law.  But  it  is  my  fault 
they  are  so  badly  oft.      1  brought  them  to  it." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Kasatsky,  dropping  his  head. 
"  Well,  Pashinka,  and  what  about  your  attitude  to 
the  church?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  of  it!  I'm  so  bad  that  way. 
I  have  neglected  it  so!  When  the  children  have 
to  go,  I  fast  and  go  to  communion  with  them,  but 
as  for  the  rest  of  the  time  I  often  do  not  go  for  a 
month.     I  just  send  them." 

"  And  why  don't  you  go?  " 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth  — "  she  blushed  — "  I'm 
ashamed  for  Masha's  sake  and  the  children's  to 
go  in  my  old  clothes.  And  I  haven't  anything 
else.     Besides,  I'm  just  lazy." 

"  And  do  you  pray  at  home?  " 

"  I  do,  but  it's  just  a  mechanical  sort  of  praying. 
I  know  it's  wrong,  but  I  have  no  real  religious 
feeling.     I  only  know  I'm  wicked  —  that's  all." 


FATHER  SERGIUS  87 

"Yes,  yes.  That's  right,  that's  right  I"  said 
Kasatsky,  as  if  in  approval. 

"I'm  coming  —  I'm  coming!"  she  called,  in 
answer  to  her  son-in-law,  and,  tidying  her  hair, 
went  to  the  other  room. 

This  time  she  was  absent  a  long  while.  When 
she  returned,  Kasatsky  was  sitting  in  the  same 
position,  his  elbow  on  his  knee  and  his  head  down. 
But  his  wallet  was  ready  strapped  on  his  back. 

When  she  came  in  with  a  little  tin  lamp  without 
a  shade,  he  raised  his  beautiful,  weary  eyes,  and 
sighed  deeply. 

"  I  didn't  tell  them  who  you  were,"  she  began 
shyly.  "  I  just  said  you  were  a  pilgrim  —  a  no- 
bleman —  and  that  I  used  to  know  you.  Won't 
you  come  into  the  dining-room  and  have  tea?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  I'll  bring  some  in  to  you  here." 

"No;  I  don't  want  anything.  God  bless  you, 
Pashinka.  I  am  going  now.  If  you  have  any 
pity  for  me,  don't  tell  any  one  you  have  seen  me. 
For  the  love  of  God,  tell  no  one.  I  thank  you. 
I  would  kneel  down  before  you,  but  I  know  it 
would  only  make  you  feel  awkward.  Forgive  me, 
for  Christ's  sake." 

"  Give  me  your  blessing." 

"  God  bless  you.  Forgive  me,  for  Christ's 
sake." 


88  FATHER  SERGIUS 

He  rose  to  go,  but  she  restrained  him  and 
brought  him  some  bread  and  butter,  which  he  took 
and  departed. 

It  was  dark,  and  he  had  hardly  passed  the 
second  house  when  he  was  lost  to  sight,  and  she 
only  knew  he  was  there  because  the  dog  at  the 
priest's  house  was  barking. 

"  That  was  the  meaning  of  my  vision.  Pa- 
shinka  is  what  I  should  have  been,  and  was  not.  I 
lived  for  man,  on  the  pretext  of  living  for  God; 
and  she  lives  for  God,  imagining  she  lives  for 
man  !  Yes ;  one  good  deed  —  a  cup  of  cold  water 
given  without  expectation  of  reward  —  is  worth 
far  more  than  all  the  benefits  I  thought  I  was  be- 
stowing on  the  world.  But  was  there  not,  after 
all,  one  grain  of  sincere  desire  to  serve  God?  "  he 
asked  himself.  And  the  answer  came:  "Yes, 
there  was;  but  it  was  so  soiled,  so  overgrown  with 
desire  for  the  world's  praise.  No;  there  is  no 
God  for  the  man  who  lives  for  the  praise  of  the 
world.      I  must  now  seek  Him." 

He  walked  on,  just  as  he  had  made  his  way 
to  Pashinka,  from  village  to  village,  meeting  and 
parting  with  other  pilgrims,  and  asking  for  bread 
and  a  night's  rest  in  the  name  of  Christ.  Some- 
times an  angry  housekeeper  would  abuse  him, 
sometimes  a  drunken  peasant  would  revile  him; 


FATHER  SERGIUS  89 

but  for  the  most  part  he  was  given  food  and 
drink,  and  often  something  to  take  with  him. 
Many  were  favourably  disposed  towards  him  on 
account  of  his  noble  bearing.  Some,  on  the  other 
hand,  seemed  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  a  gentleman  so 
reduced  to  poverty.  But  his  gentleness  van- 
quished all  hearts. 

He  often  found  a  Bible  in  a  house  where  he 
was  staying.  He  would  read  it  aloud,  and  the 
people  always  listened  to  him,  touched  by  what 
he  read  them,  and  wondering,  as  if  it  were  some- 
thing new,  although  so  familiar. 

If  he  succeeded  in  helping  people  by  his  advice 
or  by  knowing  how  to  read  and  write,  or  by  set- 
tling a  dispute,  he  did  not  afterwards  wait  to  see 
their  gratitude,  for  he  went  away  directly.  And 
little  by  little  God  began  to  reveal  Himself  within 
him. 

One  day  he  was  walking  along  the  road  with 
two  women  and  a  soldier.  They  were  stopped 
by  a  party  consisting  of  a  lady  and  gentleman  in 
a  trap  drawn  by  a  trotter,  and  another  gentleman 
and  lady  riding.  The  gentleman  beside  the  lady 
in  the  trap  was  evidently  a  traveller  —  a  French- 
man —  while  her  husband  was  on  horseback  with 
his  daughter. 

The  party  stopped  to  show  the  Frenchman  the 
pilgrims,  who,  according  to  a  superstition  of  the 


9o  FATHER  SERGIUS 

Russian  peasantry,  show  their  superiority  by 
tramping  instead  of  working.  They  spoke  French, 
thinking  they  would  not  be  understood. 

"  Detnandez-leur,"  asked  the  Frenchman,  "  s'ils 
sont  bien  sures  de  ce  que  leur  pclerinage  est  agrea- 
ble  a  Dieuf  " 

The  old  woman  answered, — 

"  Just  as  God  wills  it.  Our  feet  have  arrived  at 
the  holy  places,  but  we  can't  tell  about  our  hearts." 

They  asked  the  soldier.  He  answered  that  he 
was  alone  in  the  world,  and  belonged  nowhere. 

They  asked  Kasatsky  who  he  was. 

"  A  servant  of  God." 

"  Qu'est-ce-qu'il  dilf     II  ne  repond  pas?  " 

"  II  dit  qu'il  est  un  serviteur  de  Dieu." 

"  II  doit  etre  un  fils  de  pretre.  II  a  de  la  race. 
Avez-vous  de  la  petite  monnaief  " 

The  Frenchman  had  some  change,  and  gave 
each  of  them  twenty  kopeks. 

"  Mais  dites-leur  que  ce  nest  pas  pour  les 
cierges  que  je  leur  donne,  mais  pour  qu'ils  se  rega- 
lent  du  the.  Tea  —  tea,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 
"  Pour  vous,  mon  vieux."  And  he  patted  Kasat- 
sky on  the  shoulder  with  his  gloved  hand. 

"  Christ  save  you,"  said  Kasatsky,  and  without 
putting  on  his  hat,  bent  his  bald  head. 

Kasatsky  rejoiced  particularly  in  this  incident, 
because  he  had  shown  contempt  for  the  world's 


FATHER  SERGIUS  91 

opinion,  and  had  done  something  quite  trifling 
and  easy.  He  accepted  twenty  kopeks,  and  gave 
them  afterwards  to  a  blind  beggar  who  was  a 
friend  of  his. 

The  less  he  cared  for  the  opinion  of  the  world 
the  more  he  felt  that  God  was  with  him. 

For  eight  months  Kasatsky  tramped  in  this 
fashion,  until  at  last  he  was  arrested  in  a  provin- 
cial town  in  a  night-shelter  where  he  passed  the 
night  with  other  pilgrims.  Having  no  passport  to 
show,  he  was  taken  to  the  police-station.  When 
he  was  asked  for  documents  to  prove  his  identity 
he  said  he  had  none;  that  he  was  a  servant  of 
God.  He  was  numbered  among  the  tramps  and 
sent  to  Siberia. 

There  he  settled  down  on  the  estate  of  a  rich 
peasant,  where  he  still  lives.  He  works  in  the 
vegetable  garden,  teaches  the  children  to  read  and 
write,  and  nurses  the  sick. 


THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 


THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

i.  ON  RELIGION. 

2.  ON  WAR. 

3.  ON  STATE  AND  FATHERLAND. 

4.  ON  TAXES. 

5.  ON  JUDGING. 

6.  ON  KINDNESS. 

7.  ON  REMUNERATION  OF  LABOUR. 

8.  ON  DRINK. 

9.  ON  CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT. 
10.  ON  PRISONS. 

n.  ON  WEALTH. 

12.  ON  THOSE  WHO  OFFEND  YOU. 

13.  ON  THE  PRESS. 

14.  ON  REPENTANCE. 

15.  ON  ART. 

16.  ON  SCIENCE. 

17.  ON  GOING  TO  LAW. 

18.  ON  THE  CRIMINAL  COURT. 

19.  ON  PROPERTY. 

20.  ON  CHILDREN. 

21.  ON  EDUCATION. 


ON  RELIGION. 

Boy. 

Why  is  Nurse  so  nicely  dressed  to-day,  and  why 
did  she  make  me  wear  that  new  shirt? 

Mother. 
Because  this  is  a  holiday,  and  we  are  going  to 
church. 

Boy. 
What  holiday? 

Mother. 
Ascension  day. 

Boy. 
What  does  Ascension  mean? 

Mother. 
It   means  that  Jesus    Christ  has   ascended   to 
heaven. 

Boy. 
What  does  that  mean:  ascended? 

Mother. 
It  means  that  He  flew  up  to  heaven. 

97 


98       THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Boy. 

How  did  he  fly?     With  his  wings? 

Mother. 
Without  any  wings  whatever.     He  simply  flew 
up  because  He  is  God,  and  God  can  do  anything. 

Boy. 

But  where  did  he  fly  to?  Father  told  me  there 
was  nothing  in  heaven  at  all,  and  we  only  think  we 
see  something;  that  there's  nothing  but  stars  up 
there,  and  behind  them  more  stars  still,  and  that 
there  is  no  end  to  it.     Then  where  did  He  fly  to? 

Mother. 

(smiling.)      You  are  unable  to  understand  every- 
thing.    You  must  believe. 

Boy. 
What  must  I  believe? 

Mother. 
What  you  are  told  by  grown-up  people. 

Boy. 

But  when  I  said  to  you  that  somebody  was 
going  to  die  because  some  salt  had  been  spilt,  you 
said  I  was  not  to  believe  in  nonsense. 


ON  RELIGION  99 

Mother. 
Of  course  you  are  not  to  believe  in  nonsense. 

Boy. 
But  how  am  I  to  know  what  is  nonsense  and 
what  is  not? 

Mother. 
You  must  believe  what  the  true  faith  says,  and 
not  in  nonsense. 

Boy. 
Which  is  the  true  faith  then? 

Mother. 
Our  faith  is  the  true  one.      (To  herself.)      I 
am  afraid  I  am  talking  nonsense.      (Aloud.)      Go 
and  tell  father  we  are  ready  for  church,  and  get 
your  coat. 

Boy. 
And  shaU  we  have  chocolate  after  church? 


ON  WAR 

Karlchen  Schmidt,  nine  years;  Petia  Orlov, 
ten  years;  and  Mas  HA  Orlov,  eight  years. 

Karlchen. 

.  .  .  Because  we  Prussians  will  not  allow  Russia 
to  rob  us  of  our  land. 

Petia. 
But  we  say  this  land  belongs  to  us;  we  con- 
quered it  first. 

Masha. 
To  whom?     Is  it  ours? 

Petia. 
You   are   a    child,    and   you   don't  understand. 
"  To  us  "  means  to  our  state. 
Karlchen. 
It  is  this  way;  some  belong  to  one  state  and 
some  to  another. 

Masha. 
What  do  I  belong  to? 


ON  WAR  101 

Petia. 
You  belong  to  Russia,  like  the  rest  of  us. 

Masha. 
And  if  I  don't  want  to? 

Petia. 
It  doesn't  matter  whether  you  want  to  or  not. 
You    are    Russian    all    the    same.     Every    nation 
has  its  Tsar,  its  King. 

Karlchen. 
(interrupting.)      And  a  parliament. 

Petia. 
Each  state  has  its  army,  each  state  raises  taxes. 

Masha. 
But  why  must  each  state  stand  by  itself? 

Petia. 
What  a  silly  question!     Because  each  state  is  a 
separate  one. 

Masha. 
But  why  must  it  exist  apart? 

Petia. 
Can't    you    understand?     Because     everybody 
loves  his  own  country. 


102     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Masha. 

I  don't  understand  why  they  must  be  separate 
from  the  rest.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  if  they  all 
kept  together? 

Petia. 

To  keep  together  is  all  right  when  you  play 
games.  But  this  is  no  game:  it  is  a  very  serious 
matter. 

Masha. 
I  don't  understand. 

Karlchen. 
You  will  when  you  grow  up. 

Masha. 
Then  I  don't  want  to  grow  up. 
Petia. 

Such  a  tiny  girl,  and  obstinate  already,  just  like 
all  of  them. 


ON  STATE  AND  FATHERLAND 

Gavrila,  a  soldier  in  the  reserve,  a  servant. 
MlSHA,  his  master's  young  son. 

Gavrila. 

Good-bye,  Mishenka,  my  dear  little  master. 
Who  knows  whether  God  will  permit  me  to  see 
you  again? 

MlSHA. 
Are  you  really  leaving? 

Gavrila. 

I  have  to.  There  is  war  again.  And  I  am  in 
the  reserve. 

Misha. 

A  war  with  whom?  Who's  righting,  and  who 
are  they  fighting  against? 

Gavrila. 

God  knows.     It's  very  difficult  to  understand 
all  that.      I  have  read  about  it  in  the  papers,  but  I 
103 


io4    THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

can't  make  it  out.  They  say  that  some  one  in 
Austria  has  a  grudge  against  us  because  of  some 
favour  he  did  to  what's-their-names.   .   .  . 

Misha. 
But  what  are  you  fighting  for? 

Gavrila. 
I  am  fighting  for  the  Tsar,  of  course;  for  my 
country  and  the  Orthodox  Faith. 

MlSHA. 

But  you  don't  wish  to  go  to  the  war,  do  you? 
Gavrila. 

Certainly  not.  To  leave  my  wife  and  my  chil- 
dren. .  .  .  Do  you  suppose  I  would  leave  this 
happy  life  of  my  own  free  will? 

Misha. 

Then  why  do  you  go?  Tell  them  you  don't 
want  to,  and  stop  here.  What  can  they  do  to 
you? 

Gavrila. 

( laughing. )  What  can  they  do  ?  They  will  take 
me  by  force. 

Misha. 
Who  can  take  you  by  force? 


ON  STATE  AND  FATHERLAND     105 
Gavrila. 
Men  who  have  to  obey,  and  who  are  exactly  in 
my  position. 

Misha. 
Why  will  they  take  you  by  force  if  they  are  in 
the  same  position? 

Gavrila. 
Because  of  the  authorities.     They  will  be  or- 
dered to  take  me,  and  they  will  have  to  do  it. 

Misha. 
But  suppose  they  don't  want  to? 

Gavrila. 

They  have  to  obey. 

Misha. 
But  why? 

Gavrila. 
Why?     Because  of  the  law. 

Misha. 
What  law 

Gavrila. 
You  are  a  funny  boy.     It's  a  pleasure  to  chat 
with  you.     But  now  I  had  better  go  and  get  the 
samovar  ready.      It  will  be  for  the  last  time. 


ON  TAXES 

The  Bailiff  and  Grushka. 
Bailiff. 

{entering  a  poor  cottage.  Nobody  is  in  except 
Grushka,  a  little  girl  of  seven.  He  looks  around 
him.)      Nobody  at  home? 

Grushka. 
Mother  has  gone  to  bring  home  the  cow,  and 
Fedka  is  at  work  in  the  master's  yard. 

Bailiff. 
Well,  tell  your  mother  the  bailiff  called.     Tell 
her  I  am  giving  her  notice  for  the  third  time,  and 
that  she  must  pay  her  taxes  before  Sunday  without 
fail,  or  else  I  will  take  her  cow. 

Grushka. 
The  cow?     Are  you  a  thief?     We  will  not  let 
you  take  our  cow. 

Bailiff. 
(smiling.)      What  a  smart  girl,  I  say!     What  is 
your  name? 

106 


ON  TAXES  107 

Grushka. 
Grushka. 

Bailiff. 
You  are   a  good  girl,    Grushka.     Now  listen. 
Tell  your  mother  that,  although  I  am  not  a  thief, 
I  will  take  her  cow. 

Grushka. 
Why  will  you  take  our  cow  if  you  are  not  a 
thief? 

Bailiff. 
Because  what  is   due   must  be   paid.     I   shall 
take  the  cow  for  the  taxes  that  are  not  paid. 

Grushka. 
What's  that:  taxes? 

Bailiff. 
What  a  nuisance  of  a  girl!     What  are  taxes? 
They  are  money  paid  by  the  people  by  the  order  of 
the  Tsar. 

Grushka. 
To  whom? 

Bailiff. 
The  Tsar  will  look  after  that  when  the  money 
comes  in. 

Grushka. 
He's  not  poor,  is  he  ?     We  are  the  poor  people. 


10S     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

The  Tsar  is  rich.     Why  does  he  want  us  to  give 
him  money? 

Bailiff. 

He  does  not  take  it  for  himself.     He  spends  it 

on  us,  fools  that  we  are.      It  all  goes  to  supply  our 

needs  —  to    pay   the    authorities,    the    army,    the 

schools.      It  is  for  our  own  good  that  we  pay  taxes. 

Grushka. 

How  does  it  benefit  us  if  our  cow  is  taken  away? 
There's  no  good  in  that. 

Bailiff. 
You  will  understand  that  when  you  are  grown- 
up.    Now,  mind  you  give  your  mother  my  mes- 
sage. 

Grushka. 
I  will  not  repeat  all  your  nonsense  to  her.     You 
can  do  whatever  you  and  the  Tsar  want.     And 
we  shall  mind  our  own  business. 

Bailiff. 
What  a  devil  of  a  girl  she  will  be  when  she 
grows  up ! 


ON  JUDGING 

MlTlA,  a  boy  of  ten;  Iliusha,  a  boy  of  nine; 
Sonia,  a  girl  of  six. 

MlTIA. 

I  told  Peter  Semenovich  we  could  get  used  to 
wearing  no  clothes  at  all.  And  he  said,  "  That  is 
impossible."  Then  I  told  him  Michael  Ivano- 
vich  said  that  just  as  we  have  managed  to  get  our 
bare  faces  used  to  the  cold,  we  could  do  the  same 
with  our  whole  body.  Peter  Semenovich  said, 
"  Your  Michael  Ivanovich  is  a  fool."  (He 
laughs.)  And  Michael  Ivanovich  said  to  me 
only  yesterday,  "  Peter  Semenovich  is  talking  a 
lot  of  nonsense.  But,  of  course,"  he  added, 
11  there's  no  law  for  fools."      (He  laughs.) 

Iliusha. 
If  I  were  you  I  would  tell  Peter  Semenovich, 
"  You  abuse  Michael  Ivanovich,  and  he  does  the 
same  to  you." 

MlTIA. 
No;  but  truly,  I  wish  I  knew  which  of  them  is 
the  fool. 

109 


no     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

SONIA. 

They  both  are.     Whoever  calls  another  person 
a  fool  is  a  fool  himself. 

Iliusha. 
And  you  have  called  them  both  fools.     Then 
you  are  one  also. 

Mm  a. 
Well,  I  hate  people  saying  things  about  each 
other  behind  their  backs  and  never  openly  to  their 
faces.     When  I  am  grown-up  I  shan't  be  like  that. 
I  shall  always  say  what  I  think. 
Iliusha. 
So  shall  I. 

Sonia. 
And  I  shall  do  just  whatever  I  like. 

Mitia. 
What  do  you  mean? 

Sonia. 
Why,  I  shall  say  what  I  think  —  if  I  choose. 
And  if  I  don't  choose,  I  won't. 

Iliusha. 
You're  a  big  fool,  that  is  what  you  are. 

Sonia. 
And   you    have   just   said    you   will   never   call 
people  names.      But  of  course. 


ON  KINDNESS 

The  children,  Masha  and  MlSHA,  are  building  a 
tent  for  their  dolls  in  front  of  the  house. 

MlSHA. 

{in  an  angry  tone  to  Masha.)  No,  not  this. 
Bring  that  stick  there.  What  a  blockhead  you 
are ! 

An  Old  Woman. 
{coming  out  of  the  house,  crossing  herself,  and 
muttering.)      Jesus    Christ    reward    her!     What 
an  angel !     She  has  pity  on  every  one. 

( The  Children  cease  to  play,  and 
look  at  the  old  woman.) 

Misha. 
Who  is  as  good  as  all  that? 

Old  Woman. 

Your  mother.     She  has  God  in  her  soul.     She 
pities  us,  the  poor.     She  has  given  me  a  skirt  — 
and  some  tea,  and  money  too.     The  Queen  of 
in 


ii2     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Heaven  save  her!  Not  like  that  godless  man. 
"  Such  a  lot  of  you,"  he  says,  "  tramping  about 
here."     And  such  savage  dogs  he  has! 

MlSHA. 

Who  is  that  ? 

Old  Woman. 

The  man  opposite.  The  wine  merchant.  A 
very  unkind  gentleman,  i  can  tell  you.  But  never 
mind.  I  am  so  thankful  to  the  dear  lady.  She 
has  given  me  presents,  has  relieved  me,  miserable 
creature  that  I  am.  How  could  we  exist  if  it  were 
not  for  such  kind  people?      (She  weeps.) 

Masha. 
(to  Misha.)      How  good  she  is! 

Old  Woman. 
When  you  are  grown  up,  children,  be  as  kind  as 
she  is  to  the  poor.     God  will  reward  you. 

(Exit.) 

Misha. 

How  wretched  she  is ! 

Masha. 
I  am  so  glad  mother  has  given  her  something. 

Misha. 
Why  shouldn't  one  give,  if  one  has  got  plenty 


ON  KINDNESS  113 

of  everything  oneself?     We  are  not  poor,  and 
she  is. 

Masha. 
You  remember,  John  the  Baptist  said:     Who- 
ever has  two  coats,  let  him  give  away  one. 

Misha. 
Oh,  when   I   am   grown   up   I  will  give   away 
everything  I  have. 

Masha. 
Not  everything,  I  should  think. 

Misha. 
Why    not  ? 

Masha. 
But  what  would  you  have  left  for  yourself? 

Misha. 
I  don't  care.     We  must  always  be  kind.     Then 
the  whole  world  will  be  happy. 

(Misha  stopped  playing  with  his  sis- 
ter, went  to  the  nursery }  tore  a  page  out 
of  a  copy-book,  wrote  a  line  on  it,  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket.  On  that  page  was 
written:     We  Must  Be  Kind.) 


ON  REMUNERATION  OF  LABOUR 

The  FATHER;  Katia,  a  girl  of  nine;  Fedia,  a  boy 
of  eight. 

Katia. 
Father,    our   sledge   is   broken.      Couldn't  you 
mend  it  for  us? 

Father. 
No,  darling,  I  can  not.      I  don't  know  how  to 
do  it.      Give  it  to  Prohor;  he  will  put  it  right  for 
you. 

Katia. 
We  have  asked  him  to  already.     He  says  he  is 
busy.     He  is  making  a  gate. 

Father. 
Well,  then,  you  must  just  wait  a  little  with  your 
sledge. 

Fedia. 
And   you,    father,    can't   you   mend  it   for   us, 
really? 

114 


REMUNERATION  OF  LABOUR     115 
Father. 
(smiling.)      Really,  my  boy. 
Fedia. 
Can't  you  do  any  work  at  all? 

Father. 
(laughing.)      Oh   yes,    there    are    some   kinds    of 
work  I  can  do.     But  not  the  kind  that  Prohor 
does. 

Fedia. 
Can  you  make  samovars  like  Vania? 

Father. 
No. 

Fedia. 
Or  harness  horses? 

Father. 
Not  that  either. 

Fedia. 
I  wonder  why  are  we  all  unable  to  do  any  work, 
and  they  do  it  all  for  us.     Ought  it  to  be  like 
that? 

Father. 
Everybody  has  to   do  the  work  he   is  fit  for. 
Learn,  like  a  good  boy,  and  you  will  know  what 
work  everybody  has  to  do. 


n6     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Fedia. 
Are  we  not  to  learn  how  to  prepare  food  and 
to  harness  horses? 

Father. 
There  are  things  more  necessary  than  that. 

Fedia. 
I  know:  to  be  kind,  not  to  get  cross,  not  to 
abuse  people.      But  isn't  it  possible  to  do  the  cook- 
ing and  harness  horses,  and  be  kind  just  the  same? 
Isn't  that  possible? 

Father. 
Undoubtedly.     Just  wait  till  you  are  grown  up. 
Then  you  will  understand. 
Fedia. 
And  what  if  I  don't  grow  up? 

Father. 
Don't  talk  nonsense! 

Katia. 
Then  we  may  ask  Prohor  to  mend  the  sledge? 

Father. 
Yes,  do.     Go  to  Prohor  and  tell  him  I  wish 
him  to  do  it. 


ON  DRINK 

An  evening  in  the  autumn. 

(Makarka,  a  boy  of  twelve,  and 
Marfutka,  a  girl  of  eight,  are  coming 
out  of  the  house  into  the  street.  Mar- 
FUTKA  is  crying.  Pavlushka,  a  boy 
of  ten,  stands  before  the  house  next 
door.) 

Pavlushka. 
Where  the  devil  are  you  going  to,  both  of  you? 
Have  you  any  night  work? 

Makarka. 
Crazy  drunk  again. 

Pavlushka. 
Who?     Uncle  Prohor? 

Makarka. 
Of  course. 

Marfutka. 

He  is  beating  mother  — 
117 


1 1 8     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Makarka. 

I  won't  go  inside  to-night.  He  would  hit  me 
also.  (Sitting  dozen  on  the  doorstep.)  I  will 
stay  here  the  whole  night.     I  will. 

(Marfutka  weeps.) 

Pavlushka. 
Stop  crying.     Never  mind.     It  can't  be  helped. 
Stop  crying,  I  say. 

Marfutka. 
If  I  was  the  Tsar,  I  would  have  the  people  who 
give  him  any  drink  just  beaten  to  death.      I  would 
not  allow  anybody  to  sell  brandy. 

Pavlushka. 
Wouldn't  you?     But  it  is  the  Tsar  himself  who 
sells  it.      He  doesn't  let  anybody  else  sell  it,   for 
fear  it  would  lessen  his  own  profits. 

Marfutka. 
It  is  a  lie! 

Pavlushka. 
Humph !     A  lie !      You  just  ask  anybody  you 
like.     Why    have    they    put    Akulina    in    prison? 
Because  they  did  not  want  her  to  sell  brandy  and 
lessen  their  profits. 

Makarka. 
Is  that  really  so !      I  heard  she  had  done  some- 
thing against  the  law. 


ON  DRINK  119 

Pavlushka. 
What   she    did    against    the    law    was    selling 
brandy. 

Marfutka. 
I  would  not  allow  her  to  sell  it  either.     It  is 
just  that  brandy  that  does  all  the  mischief.     Some- 
times he  is  very  nice,  and  then  at  other  times  he 
hits  everybody. 

Makarka. 
(to  Pavlushka.)     You  say  very  strange  things. 
I  will  ask  the  schoolmaster  to-morrow.     He  must 
know. 

Pavlushka. 
Do  ask  him. 

( The  next  morning  PROHOR, 
Makarka's  father,  after  a  night's 
sleep,  goes  to  refresh  himself  with  a 
drink;  Makarka's  mother,  with  a 
swollen  eye,  is  kneading  bread. 
Makarka  has  gone  to  school.  The 
Schoolmaster  is  sitting  at  the  door  of 
the  village  school,  watching  the  children 
coming  in.) 

Makarka. 
(coming    up    to     the    schoolmaster.)      Tell    me, 
please,  Eugene  Semenovich,  is  it  true,  what  a  fel- 
low was  telling  me,  that  the  Tsar  makes  a  busi- 


120     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

ness  of  selling  brandy,  and  that  is  why  Akulina 
has  been  sent  to  prison? 

Schoolmaster. 
That  is  a  very  silly  question,  and  whoever  told 
you  that  is  a  fool.  The  Tsar  sells  nothing  what- 
soever. A  tsar  never  does.  As  for  Akulina,  she 
was  put  in  prison  because  she  was  selling  brandy 
without  a  license,  and  was  thereby  lessening  the 
revenues  of  the  Crown. 

Makarka. 
How  lessening? 

Schoolmaster. 
Because  there  is  a  duty  on  spirits.  A  barrel 
costs  so  much  in  the  factory,  and  is  sold  to  the 
public  for  so  much  more.  This  surplus  constitutes 
the  income  of  the  state.  The  largest  revenue 
comes  from  it,  and  amounts  to  many  millions. 

Makarka. 
Then  the  more  brandy  people  drink  the  greater 
the  income  ? 

Schoolmaster. 
Certainly.     If  it  were  not  for  that  income  there 
would    be   nothing   to   keep    the    army   with,    or 
schools,  or  all  the  rest  of  the  things  you  need. 


ON  DRINK  121 

Makarka. 
But  if  all  those  things  are  necessary,  why  not 
take  the  money  directly  for  the  necessary  things? 
Why  get  it  by  means  of  brandy? 
Schoolmaster. 
Why?     Because  that  is  the  law.     But  the  chil- 
dren are  all  in  now.     Take  your  seats. 


ON  CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT 

Peter  Petrovich,  a  professor.  Maria  Ivan- 
OVNA,  his  wife  {sewing.)  Fedia,  their  son,  a  boy 
of  nine  {listening  to  his  father's  conversation.) 
Ivan  Vasilievich,  counsel  for  the  prosecution  in 
the  court  martial. 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 
The  experience  of  history  cannot  be  gainsaid. 
We  have  not  only  seen  in  France  after  the  revolu- 
tion, and  at  other  historical  moments,  but  in  our 
own  country  as  well,  that  doing  away  with  —  I 
mean  the  removal  of  perverted  and  dangerous 
members  of  society  has  in  fact  the  desired  result. 

Peter  Petrovich. 
No,  we  cannot  know  what  the  consequences  of 
this  are  in  reality.     The  proclamation  of  a  state 
of  siege  is  therefore  not  justified. 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 
But  neither  have  we  the  right  to  presume  that 
the  consequences  of  a  state  of  siege  must  be  bad, 

122 


ON  CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT      123 

or,  if  it  proves  to  be  so,  that  such  consequences 
are  brought  about  by  the  employment  of  a  state  of 
siege.  This  is  one  point.  The  other  is  that  fear 
cannot  fail  to  influence  those  who  have  lost  every 
human  sensibility  and  are  like  beasts.  What  ex- 
cept fear  could  have  any  effect  on  men  like  that 
one  who  calmly  stabbed  an  old  woman  and  three 
children  in  order  to  steal  three  hundred  roubles? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
But  I  am  not  against  capital  punishment  in 
principle;  I  am  only  opposed  to  the  special  courts 
martial  which  are  so  often  formed.  If  these 
frequent  executions  did  nothing  but  inspire  fear, 
it  would  be  different.  But  in  addition  they  per- 
vert the  mind,  and  killing  becomes  a  habit  of 
thought. 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 
There  again  we  don't  know  anything  about  the 
remote  consequences,  but  we  do  know,  on  the  con- 
trary, how  beneficial.   .   .  . 

Peter  Petrovich. 
Beneficial? 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 

Yes,  how  beneficial  the  immediate  results  are, 
and  we  have  no   right  to  deny  it.     How   could 


i24     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

society  similarly  fail  to  exact  the  penalty  from 
such  a  wretch  as  .   .   . 

Peter  Petrovich. 
You  mean  society  must  take  its  revenge? 

Ivan  Vasilievicii. 
No,   the  object  is  not  revenge.     On  the  con- 
trary, it  must  substitute  for  personal  revenge  the 
penalty  imposed  for  the  good  of  the  community. 

Peter  Petrovich. 
But  in  that  case  it  must  be  subject  to  regulations 
settled  by  the  law  once  for  ever,   and  not  as  a 
special  order  of  things. 

Ivan  Vasilievich. 

The  penalty  imposed  by  the  community  is  a 
substitute  for  casual,  exaggerated  revenge,  in 
many  cases  ungrounded  and  erroneous,  which  a 
private  individual  might  take. 

Peter  Petrovich. 

(passionately.)  Do  you  really  mean  to  say  the 
penalty  imposed  by  society  is  never  casual,  is 
always  well  founded,  is  never  erroneous?  I  can- 
not admit  that.  None  of  your  arguments  could 
ever  convince  me  or  anyone  else  that  this  is  true 


ON  CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT      125 

of  a  state  of  siege,  under  which  thousands  have 
been  executed  .  .  .  and  under  which  execu- 
tions are  still  going  on  —  that  all  this  is  both  just 
and  legal,  and  beneficial  into  the  bargain!  (Rises 
and  walks  up  and  down  in  great  agitation.) 

Fedia. 
(to  his  mother.)      Mother,  what  is  father  talking 
about? 

Maria  Ivanovna. 
Father  thinks  it  wrong  that  so  many  people  are 
put  to  death. 

Fedia. 
Do  you  mean  really  put  to  death? 

Maria  Ivanovna. 
Yes.     He  thinks  it  ought  not  to  be  done   so 
frequently. 

Fedia. 
(coming  up  to  his  father.)      Father,  isn't  it  writ- 
ten in  the  Ten  Commandments:    "  Thou  shalt  not 
kill  "?     Doesn't  that  mean  you  are  not  to  kill  at 
all? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
(smiling.)      That  does  not  refer  to  what  we  are 
talking  about.     It  only  means  that  men  are  not 
to  kill  other  men. 


126     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Fedia. 

But  when  they  execute  they  kill,  don't  they? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
Certainly.      But  the  thing  is  to  know  why  and 

when  it  is  permissible. 

Fedia. 

When  is  it? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
Why,  think  of  a  war,  or  of  a  great  villain  who 
has  committed  many  murders.     How  could  one 
leave  him  unpunished? 

Fedia. 
But  isn't  it  written  in  the  Gospel  that  we  must 
love  and  forgive  everybody? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
[f  we  could  do  that  it  would  be  splendid.     But 
that  cannot  be. 

Fedia. 
Why? 

Peter  Petrovich. 
(to  Ivan  Vasilievich,  who  listens  to  Fedia  with 
a  smile.)      As  I  said,  dear  Ivan  Vasilievich,  I  can- 
not and  will  not  admit  the  benefit  of  a  state  of 
siege  and  courts-martial. 


ON  PRISONS 

Semka,  a  boy  of  thirteen ;  Aksutka,  a  girl  of 
ten;  PALASHKA,  a  girl  of  nine;  Vanka,  a  boy  of 
eight.  They  are  sitting  at  the  well,  with  baskets 
of  mushrooms  zvhich  they  have  gathered. 

Aksutka. 
Aunt  Matrena  was  crying  so  desperately.      And 
the  children  too  would  not  leave  off  howling,  all 
at  the  same  time. 

Vanka. 
Why  were  they  howling? 

Palashka. 
What    about?     Why,    their    father    has    been 
taken   off   to   prison.     Who    should  cry   but  the 
family? 

Vanka. 
Why  is  he  in  prison? 

Aksutka. 
I  don't  know.     They  came  and  told  him  to  get 
127 


128     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

his  things  ready  and  led  him  away.     We  saw  it 
all  from  our  cottage. 

Semka. 
Serves  him  right  for  being  a  horse-stealer.     He 
stole  a  horse  from  Demkin's  place  and  one  from 
Hramov's.     He  and  his  gang  also  got  hold  of  our 
gelding.     Who  could  love  him  for  that? 

Aksutka. 
That  is  all  right,  but  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor 
brats.     There  are  four  of  them.     And  so  poor  — 
no  bread  in  the  house.     To-day  they  had  to  come 
to  us. 

Semka. 
Serves  the  thief  right. 

Mitka. 
But  he's  the  only  one  that  is  the  thief.     Why 
must  his  children  become  beggars? 

Semka. 
Why  did  he  steal? 

Mitka. 
The  kid's  didn't  steal  —  it  is  just  he. 

Semka. 
Kids  indeed!     Why  did  he  do  wrong?     That 
doesn't  alter  the  case,  that  he  has  got  children. 
Does  that  give  him  the  right  to  be  a  thief? 


ON  PRISONS  129 

Vanka. 
What  will  they  do  to  him  in  prison? 

Aksutka. 
He  will  just  sit  there.     That's  all. 

Vanka. 

And  will  they  give  him  food? 

Semka. 
That's  just  the  reason  why  they're  not  afraid, 
those  damned  horse-thieves !  He  doesn't  mind 
going  to  prison.  They  provide  him  with  every- 
thing and  he  has  nothing  to  do  but  sit  idle  the 
whole  day  long.  If  I  were  the  Tsar,  I  would 
know  how  to  manage  those  horse-thieves.  .  .  . 
I  would  teach  them  a  lesson  that  would  make 
them  give  up  the  habit  of  stealing.  Now  he  has 
nothing  to  worry  him.  He  sits  in  the  company 
of  fellows  like  himself,  and  they  teach  each  other 
how  to  steal.  Grandfather  said  Petrusha  was 
quite  a  good  boy  when  he  went  to  prison  for  the 
first  time,  but  he  came  out  a  desperate  villain. 
Since  then  he's  taken  to  —  * 

Vanka. 
Then  why  do  they  put  people  in  prison? 

Semka. 
Just  ask  them. 


130     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Aksutka. 
He  will  have  all  his  food  given  to  him  — 
Semka. 
(agreeing.)      So  he  will  get  more  accustomed  to 
finding  the  food  ready  for  him! 

Aksutka. 
While  the  kiddies  and  their  mother  have  to  die 
of  starvation.     They  are  our  neighbours;  we  can't 
help  pitying  them.     When  they  come  asking  for 
bread,  we  can't  refuse.     How  could  we? 

Vanka. 
Then  why  are  those  people  put  in  prison? 

Semka. 
What  else  could  be  done  with  them? 

Vanka. 

What?     What    could    be    done?     One    must 
somehow  manage  that.  .  .   . 

Semka. 
Yes,    somehow!     But    you    don't    know    how. 
There  have  been  people  with  more  brains  than 
you've  got  who  have  thought  about  that,  and  they 
couldn't  invent  anything. 

Palashka. 
I  think  if  I  had  been  a  queen   .   .   . 


ON  PRISONS  131 

Aksutka. 
(laughing.)      Well,  what  would  you  have  done, 
my  queen? 

Palashka. 
I  would  have  things  so  that  nobody  would  steal 
and  the  children  would  not  cry. 

Aksutka. 
How  would  you  do  that? 

Palashka. 
I  would  just  see  that  everybody  was  given  what 
he  needed,  that  nobody  was  wronged  by  anybody 
else,  and  that  they  were  all  happy. 

Semka. 
Three  cheers  for  the  queen!      But  how  would 
you  manage  that? 

Palashka. 
I  would  just  do  it,  you  would  see. 

Mitka. 
Let  us  all  go  to  the  birch  woods.     The  girls 
have  been  gathering  a  lot  there  lately. 

Semka. 
All    right.      Come    along,    you    fellows.      And 
you,  queen,  mind  you  don't  drop  your  mushrooms. 
You  are  so  sharp. 

(They  get  up  and  go  away.) 


ON  WEALTH 

The  Landlord,  his  Wife,  their  Daughter 
and  their  son  Vasia,  six  years  old,  are  having  tea 
on  the  veranda.  The  grown-up  children  are 
playing  tennis.  A  Young  Beggar  comes  up  to 
the  veranda. 

Landlord. 
(to  the  beggar.)      What  do  you  want? 

Beggar. 
(boning  to  him.)  I  dare  say  you  know.  Have 
pity  on  a  man  out  of  work.  I  am  tramping,  with 
nothing  to  eat,  and  no  clothes  to  wear.  I  have 
been  to  Moscow,  and  am  trying  to  get  home. 
Help  a  poor  man. 

Landlord. 
Why  are  you  poor? 

Beggar. 
Why?     Because  I  haven't  got  anything. 

Landlord. 
You  would  not  be  poor  if  you  worked. 
132 


ON  WEALTH  133 

Beggar. 

I    would   be    glad    to,    but    I    can't   get    a   job. 
Everything  is  shut  down  now. 

Landlord. 
How  is  it  other  people  find  work  and  you  can- 
not? 

Beggar. 
Believe  me,  upon  my  soul,  I  would  be  only  too 
glad  to  work.     But  I  can't  find  a  job.     Have  pity 
on  me,  sir.      I  have  not  eaten  for  two  days,  and 
I've  been  tramping  all  the  time. 

Landlord. 
(to  his  wife  in  French.)      Have  you  any  change? 
I  have  only  notes. 

His  Wife. 
(to  Vasia.)      Be  a  good  boy,   go  and  fetch  my 
purse;  it  is  in  my  bag  on  the  little  table  beside  my 
bed. 

(Vasia  does  not  hear  what  his  mother 
says;  he  has  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  beggar.) 

The  Wife 
Don't  you  hear,  Vasia?      (Pulling  him  by  the 
sleeve.)      Vasia  1 


i34     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Yasia. 
What,  mother? 

(The  Wife  repeats  her  directions.) 
Yasia. 
(jumping  up.)      I  am  off.      (Goes,  looking  back 
at  the  beggar.) 

Landlord. 
(to    the   beggar.)      Wait    a    moment.      (BEGGAR 
steps  aside.) 

Landlord. 
(to  liis  wife,  in  French.)      Is  it  not  dreadful?     So 
many  are   out  of  work  now.      It  is  all  laziness. 
Yet,  It  is  horrid  if  he  really  is  hungry. 
His  Wife. 
I  hear  it  is  just  the  same  abroad.     I  have  read 
that  in  New  York  there  are  100,000  unemployed. 
Another  cup  of  tea? 

Landlord. 
Yes,  but  much  weaker.      (He  lights  a  cigarette; 
they  stop  talking.) 

(Beggar  looks  at  them,  shakes  his 
head  and  coughs,  evidently  to  attract 
their  attention.) 

(Vasia  comes  running  with  the 
purse  looks  round  for  the  beggar  and, 
passing  the  purse  to  his  mother,  looks 
again  fixedly  at  the  beggar.) 


ON  WEALTH  135 

Landlord. 
(taking   a   ten   kopek   piece    out   of   the  purse.) 
There,  What's-your-name,  take  that. 

Beggar. 
(bows,  pulls  of  his  cap  and  takes  the  money.) 
Thank   you,    thank   you    for    that    much.      Many 
thanks  for  having  pity  on  a  poor  man. 

Landlord. 

I  pity  you  chiefly  for  being  out  of  work.  Work 
would  save  you  from  poverty.  He  who  works 
will  never  be  poor. 

Beggar. 

(having  received  the  money,  puts  on  his  cap  and 
turns  away.)  They  say  truly  that  work  does  not 
make  a  rich  man  but  a  humpback.      (Exit.) 

Vasia. 
What  did  he  say! 

Landlord. 
He  repeated  that  stupid  peasant's  proverb,  that 
work  does  not  make  a  rich  man  but  a  humpback. 

Vasia. 
What  does  that  mean? 


136     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Landlord. 
It  is  supposed  to  mean  that  work  makes  a  man's 
back  crooked,  without  ever  making  him  rich. 

Vasia. 
But  that  is  not  true,  is  it? 

Father. 
Of  course  not.     Those  who  tramp  about  like 
that  man  there  and  have  no  desire  to  work,  are 
always  poor.     It's  only  those  who  work,  who  get 
rich. 

Vasia. 
Why  are  we  rich,  then,  when  we  don't  work? 

Mother. 
(laughing.)      How  do  you  know  father  doesn't 
work  ? 

Vasia. 
I  don't  know,  but  since  we  are  very  rich,  father 
ought  to  be  working  very  hard.     Is  he,  I  wonder? 

Father. 
There  is  work  and  work.      My  work  is  perhaps 
work  that  everybody  could  not  do. 

Vasia. 
What  is  your  work? 


ON  WEALTH  137 

Father. 
My  work  is  to  provide   for  your  food,   your 
clothes,  and  your  education. 

Vasia. 
But  hasn't  he  to  provide  all  that  also?     Then 
why  is  he  so  miserable  when  we  are  so  — 

Father. 
(laughing.)      What  a  self-made  socialist,  I  say! 
Mother. 
Yes,  people  say:     "  A  fool  can  ask  more  ques- 
tions than  a  thousand  wise  men  can  answer."     In- 
stead of  "  fool,"  we  ought  to  say  "  every  child." 


ON  THOSE  WHO  OFFEND  YOU 

MASHA,  a  girl  of  ten;  Vania,  a  boy  of  eight. 

MASHA. 
What  I  wish  is  that  mother  would  come  home 
at  once  and  take  us  shopping,  and  then  to  call  on 
Nastia.     What  would  you  like  to  happen  now? 

Vania. 
I?     I  wish  something  would  happen  like  it  did 
yesterday. 

Masha. 
What  happened  yesterday?     You  mean  when 
Grisha  hit  you  and  you  both  began  to  cry?     There 
wasn't  much  good  in  that. 

Vania. 
That's  just  what  was  beautiful.     Nothing  could 
have  been  more  so.     That's  what  I  want  to  hap- 
pen again. 

Masha. 
I  don't  understand. 

138 


ON  THOSE  WHO  OFFEND  YOU     139 

Vania. 

Well,  I  will  explain  what  I  want.  Do  you 
remember  last  Sunday,  Uncle  P. —  you  know  how 
I  love  him.  .  .  . 

Masha. 

Who  wouldn't.  Mother  says  he  is  a  saint;  and 
it's  true. 

Vania. 

Well,  you  remember  he  told  us  a  story  last 
Sunday  about  a  man  whom  people  used  to  insult. 
The  more  any  one  insulted  him  the  more  he  loved 
the  offender.  They  abused  him,  and  he  praised 
them.  They  hit  him  and  he  helped  them.  Uncle 
said  that  anybody  who  acts  so  feels  very  happy. 
I  liked  what  he  said,  and  I  wanted  to  be  like  that 
man.  So,  when  Grisha  hit  me  yesterday,  I  re- 
membered my  wish  and  kissed  Grisha.  He  burst 
out  crying.  I  felt  very  happy.  But  with  nurse 
yesterday  it  was  different;  she  began  scolding  me, 
and  I  quite  forgot  how  I  ought  to  have  behaved, 
and  I  answered  her  very  rudely.  What  I  wish 
now  is  to  have  the  same  experience  over  again 
that  I  had  with  Grisha. 

Masha. 
Then  you  would  like  somebody  to  strike  you? 


1 4o     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Vania. 
I  would  like  it  awfully.      I  would  immediately 
do  what  I  did  to  Grisha,  and  I  would  be  so  glad. 

Masha. 

How  stupid !     Just  like  the  fool  you've  always 
been. 

Vania. 
I  don't  mind  being  a  fool.      I  only  know  now 
what  to  do,  so  as  to  feel  happy  all  the  time. 
Masha. 
A  regular  fool !      Do  you  really  feel  happy,  do- 
ing so? 

Vania. 
Just  awfully  happy  1 


ON  THE  PRESS 

The  schoolroom  at  home. 

(Volodia,  a  schoolboy  of  fourteen, 
is  reading;  Sonia,  a  girl  of  fifteen,  is 
writing.  The  Yard-Porter  enters, 
carrying  a  heavy  load  on  his  hack: 
Misha,  a  boy  of  eight,  following  him.) 

Porter. 

Where    am    I   to   put   that   bundle,   sir?     My 
shoulders  are  bent  down  with  the  weight  of  it. 

Volodia. 
Where  were  you  told  to  put  it? 

Porter. 
Vasily  Timofeevich  told  me  to  carry  it  to  the 
schoolroom  and  leave  it  for  him. 
Volodia. 
Then  put  it  in  the  corner. 

(Porter    unloads    the    bundle    and 
sighs  heavily.) 
141 


142     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

SONIA. 

What  is  it? 

VOLODIA. 
"  Truth  " —  a  paper. 

Misha. 
"  Truth  "  ?     What  do  you  mean? 

Sonia. 
Why  have  you  so  many? 

Volodia. 
It   is   a   collection  of  the   whole  year's   issues. 
(Continues  reading.) 

MlSHA. 

Has  all  this  been  written? 
Porter. 
The  fellows  who  wrote  it  weren't  very  lazy, 
I'll  bet. 

Volodia. 
(laughs.)      What  did  you  say? 
Porter. 
I  said  what  I  meant.     It  wasn't  a  lazy  lot  that 
wrote    all    that.     Well,     I'm    going.     Will    you 
kindly  say  I  have  brought  the  bundle.      (Exit.) 

Sonia. 
(to  Volodia.)     What  does  father  want  all  those 
papers  for? 


ON  THE  PRESS  143 

VOLODIA. 

He  wants  to  collect  Bolchakov's  articles  from 
them. 

Sonia. 

And    Uncle    Michael    Ivanovich    says    reading 
Bolchakov  makes  him  ill. 

Volodia. 
Just  like  Uncle  Michael  Ivanovich.     He  only 
reads  "  Truth  for  All." 

Misha. 
And  is  uncle's  "  Truth  "  as  big  as  this? 

Sonia. 
Bigger.     But  this  is  only  for  one  year,  and  the 
papers  have  been  published  twenty  years  or  more. 

Misha. 
That  makes  twenty  such  bundles  and  another 
twenty  more. 

Sonia. 
(wishing   to    mystify    Misha.)      That's   nothing. 
These  are  only  two  papers,  and  besides  there  are 
at  least  thirty  more. 

Volodia. 
(without   raising    his    head.)      Thirty,    you    say! 
There  are  five  hundred  and  thirty  in  Russia  alone. 
And  with  those  published  abroad  there  are  thou- 
sands altogether. 


i44     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

MlSHA. 

They  couldn't  all  be  put  into  this  room. 

Volodia. 

Not    even    in    this    whole    street.     But    please 

don't  disturb  me  in  my  work.     To-morrow  teacher 

is  sure  to  call  upon  me,  and  you  don't  give  me  a 

chance  of  learning  my  lessons  with  your  silly  talk. 

{Resumes  his  reading.) 

MlSHA. 

I  don't  think  there's  any  use  writing  so  much. 

Sonia. 
Why  not? 

MlSHA. 

Because  if  what  they  write  is  true,  then  why  say 
the  same  thing  over  and  over  again?     If  it  isn't, 
then  why  say  what  is  not  true? 
Sonia. 

An  excellent  judgment ! 

MlSHA. 

Why  do  they  write  such  an  awful  lot? 

Volodia. 

(without  taking  his  eyes  off  his  hook.)  Because 
if  it  wasn't  for  the  freedom  of  the  press,  how 
would  people  know  what  the  truth  is? 


ON  THE  PRESS  145 

MlSHA. 

Father  says  the  "  Truth  "  contains  the  truth, 
and  Uncle  Michael  Ivanovich  says  "  Truth  " 
makes  him  ill.  Then  how  do  they  know  where 
the  truth  really  is  —  in  "  Truth  "  or  in  "  Truth  for 
All"? 

SONIA. 
I  think  you  are  right.     There  are  really  too 
many  papers  and  magazines  and  books. 

VOLODIA. 

Just  like  a  woman:  perfectly  senseless  in  every 
conclusion ! 

SONIA. 

I  only  mean  that  when  there  is  so  much  written 
it  is  impossible  to  know  anything  really. 

VOLODIA. 

But  everybody  has  brains  given  him  to  find  out 
where  the  truth  is. 

Misha. 
Then  if  everybody  has  got  brains  he  can  reason 
things  out  for  himself. 

VOLODIA. 

So  that's  how  you  reason  with  your  large  supply 
of  brains!  Please  go  somewhere  else  and  leave 
me  alone  to  work. 


ON  REPENTANCE 

VoliA,  a  boy  of  eight,  stands  in  the  passage 
with  an  empty  plate  and  cries.  Fedia,  a  boy  of 
ten,  comes  running  into  the  passage. 

Fedia. 
Mother  sent  me  to  see  where  you  were;  but 
what   are  you   crying   for?     Have  you   brought 
nurse  .  .   .    (Sees  the  empty  plate f  and  whistles.) 
Where  is  the  cake? 

Volia. 
I  —  I  —  I  wanted  it,  I  —  (and  then  suddenly) 

—  Boo-hoo-hoo !     All  of  a  sudden  I  ate  it  up  — 
without  meaning  to. 

Fedia. 
Instead  of  taking  it  to  nurse,  you  have  eaten 
it  yourself  on  the  way!     Well  I  never!     Mother 
thought  you  wanted  nurse  to  have  the  cake. 

Volia. 
I  did  (and  then  suddenly,  without  meaning  to). 

—  Boo-hoo-hoo ! 

146 


ON  REPENTANCE  147 

Fedia. 
You  just  tasted  it,  and  then  you  ate  the  whole 
of  it.     Well,  I  never!      (Laughs.) 

Volia. 
It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  laugh,  but  how  am 
I  going  to  tell.  .  .  .  Now  I  can't  go  to  nurse  — 
or  to  mother  either. 

Fedia. 
A  nice  mess  you  have  made  of  it,  I  must  say. 
Ha,  ha!     So  you  have  eaten  the  whole  cake?     It 
is  no  use  crying.     Just  try  to  think  of  some  way 
of  getting  out  of  it. 

Volia. 
I  can't  see  how  I  can.     What  shall  I  do  ? 

Fedia. 
Fancy  that !      (  Trying  to  restrain  himself  from 
laughing.     A  pause.) 

Volia. 
What  am  I  to  do  now?      I  am  lost.      (Hozvls.) 

Fedia. 
Don't  you  care.     Stop  that  howling.     Simply 
go  to  mother  and  tell  her  you  have  eaten  the  cake 
yourself. 

Volia. 
That  is  worse. 


148     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Fedia. 
Then  go  and  confess  to  nurse. 

Volia. 
How  can  I  ? 

Fedia. 
Listen ;  you  wait  here.      I  will  find  nurse  and 
tell  her.      She  won't  mind. 

Volia. 
No,  don't.     I  cannot  let  her  know  about  it. 

Fedia. 
Nonsense.     You  did  it  by  mistake;  it  can't  be 
helped.     I    will    tell    her    in    a    minute.      (Runs 
away.) 

Volia. 
Fedia,    Fedia,    wait!     He    is    gone  —  I    just 
tasted  it,  and  then  I  don't  remember  how  I  did  it. 
What  am  I  to  do  now!      (Sobbing.) 

Fedia. 
(comes  running  bark.)      Stop  your  bawling,  I  say. 
I  told  you  nurse  would  forgive  you.     She  only 
said,  "  Oh,  the  darling!  " 

Volia. 
She  is  not  cross  with  me? 


ON  REPENTANCE  149 

Fedia. 
Not  a  bit.     She  said,    "  I   don't  care  for  the 
cake;  I  would  have  given  it  to  him  anyhow." 

Volia. 
But  I  didn't  mean  to  eat  it.      (Cries  again.) 

Fedia. 
Why   are   you   crying   again?     We   won't   tell 
mother.     Nurse  has  quite  forgiven  you. 

Volia. 
Nurse  has  forgiven  me.     I  know  she  is  kind 
and  good.      But  me,  I  am  a  wicked  boy,  and  that's 
what  makes  me  cry. 


ON  ART 

Footman;   Housekeeper;   Natasha    (a  little 
girl.) 

Footman. 
(with  a   tray.)      Almond  milk  for  the  tea,   and 
rum  — 

Housekeeper. 
(knitting  a  stocking  and  counting  the  stitches.) 
Twenty-three,  twenty-four  — 

Footman. 
I  say,  Avdotia  Vasilievna,  can't  you  hear? 

Housekeeper. 
I  hear,  I  hear.  I'll  give  it  to  you  presently. 
I  can't  tear  myself  to  pieces  to  do  all  kinds  of 
work  at  the  same  moment.  (To  Natasha.) 
Yes,  darling;  I  will  bring  you  the  prunes  presently. 
Just  wait  a  moment,  till  I  have  given  him  the 
milk.      (Strains  the  almond  milk.) 

Footman. 

(sitting  down.)      I  tell  you  I  have  seen  something 

150 


ON  ART  151 

to-night.     To   think  that  they  pay  good  money 
for  that ! 

Housekeeper. 
Oh,  you  have  been  to  the  theatre.     You  were 
out  late  to-night. 

Footman. 
An  opera  is  always  a  long  affair.      I  have  al- 
ways  to   wait  hours    and  hours.     To-night  they 
were  kind,  and  let  me  in  to  see  the  performance. 

( The  kitchen-maid,  the  manservant 
Pavel  enters  with  the  cream  and  stands 
listening.) 

Housekeeper. 
Then  there  was  singing  to-night? 

Footman. 
Singing  —  humph!  Just  silly,  loud  screaming, 
not  a  bit  like  real  singing.  "I,"  he  said  —  "I 
love  her  so  much."  And  he  puts  it  all  to  a  tune, 
and  it  is  not  like  anything  under  heaven.  Then 
they  had  a  row,  and  ought  to  have  fought  it  out; 
but  they  started  singing  instead. 


the 


Housekeeper. 
And  yet  I've  heard  it  costs  a  lot  to  get  seats  for 


152     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Footman. 
Our  box  cost  three  hundred  roubles  for  twelve 
nights. 

Pavel. 

(shaking  his  head.)      Three  hundred !     And  who 
does  that  money  go  to? 

Footman. 
Why,  the  people  who  sing  are  paid  for  it.      I 
was   told   a   lady  singer  makes   fifty  thousand  a 
year. 

Pavel. 

You  talk  of  thousands  —  why,  three  hundred  is 
a  pile  of  money  in  the  country.  Some  folks  toil 
their  whole  life  long,  and  can't  even  get  together 
one  hundred. 

(Nina,  a  schoolgirl,  enters  the  ser- 
vants' pantry.) 

Nina. 
Is    Natasha    here?     Why    don't    you    come? 
Mother  wants  you. 

Natasha. 
(munching  a  prune.)      I  am  coming. 

Nina. 
(to  Pavel.)     What  were  you  saying  about  a  hun- 
dred roubles? 


ON  ART  153 

Housekeeper. 

Simeon  (pointing  to  the  footman)  was  just  tell- 
ing us  about  the  singing  he  listened  to  to-night  in 
the  theatre,  and  about  the  lady  singers  being  paid 
such  a  lot  of  money.  That's  what  made  Pavel 
wonder.  Is  that  really  true,  Nina  Mikhailovna, 
that  a  lady  may  get  fifty  thousand  for  her  singing? 

Nina. 

More  than  that.  A  lady  has  been  engaged  to 
sing  in  America  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
roubles.  But  even  better  than  that,  yesterday's 
paper  says  a  musician  has  been  paid  fifty  thousand 
roubles  for  his  finger-nail. 

Pavel. 

The  papers  write  all  sorts  of  nonsense.  That 
couldn't  be.     How  could  he  be  paid  that? 

Nina. 
(evidently  pleased.)      He  was,  I  tell  you. 

Pavel. 
Just  for  a  finger-nail? 

Natasha. 
How  is  that  possible? 


i54     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Nina. 
He  was  a  pianist,   and  was   insured   for  that 
amount  in  case  anything  happened  to  his  hand, 
and  he  couldn't  go  on  playing  the  piano. 

Pavel. 

Well,  I'll  be  blowed! 

Senichka. 

(a  schoolboy  in  the  upper  class  of  the  school,  en- 
tering the  pantry.)  You've  got  a  regular  meet- 
ing here.     What  is  it  all  about? 

(Nina  tells  him  what  they  have 
been  talking  about.) 

Senichka. 

(with  still  more  complacency  than  NlNA.)  That 
story  of  the  nail  is  nothing  at  all.  Why,  a  dancer 
in  Paris  had  her  foot  insured  for  two  hundred 
thousand  roubles,  in  case  she  sprained  it  and  was 
not  able  to  go  on  dancing. 

Footman. 

That's  them  girls  —  excuse  me  for  mentioning 
it  —  that  work  with  their  legs  without  any  stock- 
ings on. 

Pavel. 
You  call  that  work!     And  they  are  paid  for  it! 


ON  ART  155 

Senichka. 
But  every  one  cannot  do  that  kind  of  work  — 
and  she  had  to  study  a  good  many  years. 

Pavel. 
What  did  she  study  that  did  any  good?     Mere 
hopping  about? 

Senichka. 
Ycu  don't  understand.     Art  is  a  great  thing. 

Pavel. 
I  think  it  is  all  nonsense.  People  spend  money 
like  that  because  they  have  such  an  easy  time.  If 
they  had  to  bend  their  backs  as  we  do  to  make 
a  living,  there  wouldn't  be  all  these  singing  and 
dancing  girls.  They  ain't  worth  anything  —  but 
what  is  the  use  of  saying  so? 

Senichka. 
There  we  have  the  outcome  of  ignorance.     To 
him  Beethoven  and  Viardot  and  Rafael  are  utter 
folly. 

Natasha. 
Well,  I  think  what  he  says  is  so. 

Nina. 
Come,  let's  go. 


ON  SCIENCE 

Two  schoolboys,  one  a  pupil  of  the  real  gym- 
nasium* and  the  other  of  the  classical  gymnasium; 
two  twins,  brothers  of  the  latter;  VOLODIA  and 
Petrusha,  eight  years  of  age. 

Science  Scholar. 
What  do  I  want  with  Latin  and  Greek,  when 
everything  of  any  value  has  been  translated  into 
the  modern  languages? 

Classical  Scholar. 
You  will  never  understand  the  Iliad  unless  you 
read  it  in  Greek. 

Science  Scholar. 
But  I  don't  see  the  use  of  reading  it.     I  don't 
want  to. 

VOLODIA. 

What  is  the  Iliad? 

Science  Scholar. 
A  story. 

*A   school   for   natural   science  without   Greek   and   Latin;   in 
the  classical  gymnasium  Latin  and  Greek  are  taught. 
156 


OX  SCIENCE  157 

Classical  Scholar. 
Yes,  a  story,  but  one  that  has  not  its  equal  in 
the  world. 

Petrusha. 
What  is  it  that  makes  the  story  so  particularly 
good? 

Science  Scholar. 
Nothing.     It  is  just  a  story,  and  nothing  else. 

Classical  Scholar. 
Yes;  but  you  cannot  really  understand  antiquity 
without  a  knowledge  of  this  story. 

Science  Scholar. 
I  consider  that  a  superstition  just  like  religious 
instruction. 

Classical  Scholar. 
(getting  excited.)      Religious  instruction  is  noth- 
ing but  lies  and  nonsense,  while  this  is  history  and 
wisdom. 

VOLODIA. 

Is  religious  instruction  all  nonsense? 

Classical  Scholar. 
Why  do  you  sit  there  listening  to  our  talk? 
You  can't  understand. 

Both  Boys. 
(hurt.)      Why  shouldn't  we? 


158     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

VOLODIA. 

Perhaps  we  understand  things  better  than  you 
do. 

Classical  Scholar. 
Very  well.  Just  be  quiet,  and  don't  interrupt. 
(  To  the  Science  Scholar.)  You  say  Latin  and 
Greek  is  of  no  use  in  life:  but  that  applies  as  well 
to  bacteriology,  to  chemistry,  to  physics,  and  as- 
tronomy. Why  is  it  necessary  to  know  anything 
about  the  distance  of  the  stars,  about  their  size, 
and  all  those  unnecessary  details? 

Science  Scholar. 
Unnecessary?     On  the  contrary,  they  are  very 
necessary  indeed. 

Classical  Scholar. 
What  for? 

Science  Scholar. 
Why,  for  everything.  Take  navigation.  You 
would  think  that  had  not  much  to  do  with  astron- 
omy. But  look  at  the  practical  results  of  science 
—  the  way  it  is  applied  to  agriculture,  to  medicine, 
to  the  industries  — 

Classical  Scholar. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  used  also  in  making 
bombs,  for  purposes  of  war,  and  for  revolutionary 


ON  SCIENCE  159 

objects   as   well.     If   science    contributed   to   the 
moral  improvement,  then  — 

Science  Scholar. 
But  what  about  your  sort  of  knowledge?     Does 
that  raise  the  moral  standard? 

Volodia. 
Is  there  any  science  that  makes  people  better? 

Classical  Scholar. 
I  told  you  not  to  interfere  in  the  discussions  of 
grown-up    people.     You    say    nothing    but    silly 
things. 

Volodia  and  Petrusha. 
{with    one    voice.)      Not    so    silly    as    you    im- 
agine. .  .  .     Just  tell  us  which  science   teaches 
people  how  to  be  good. 

Science  Scholar. 
There  isn't  such  a  science.     Everybody  has  to 
find  that  out  for  himself. 

Classical  Scholar. 
What  is  the  use  of  talking  to  them  ?    They  don't 
understand. 

Science  Scholar. 
Why  not?     They  might.     How  to  be   good, 
Volodia  and  Petrusha,  is  not  taught  in  schools. 


160     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

VOLODIA. 

Well,  if  that  is  not  taught,  it  is  no  use  going  to 
school. 

Petrusha. 

When  we  are  grown  up  we  will  not  learn  useless 
things. 

VOLODIA. 

As  for  the  right  way  to  live,  we'll  do  that  better 
than  you. 

Classical  Scholar. 
(laughing.)      Oh,  the  wisdom  of  that  conclusion! 


ON  GOING  TO.  LAW 

A  Peasant,  His  Wife,  a  Kinswoman,  Fedia, 
the  peasant's  son,  a  lad  of  nineteen.  Petka,  an- 
other son,  a  boy  of  nine. 

Father. 

{entering  the  cottage  and  taking  off  his  cloak.) 
What  beastly  weather !  I  could  hardly  manage  to 
get  home. 

Mother. 
And   such   a   long  way  for  you.     It  must  be 
nearly  fifteen  miles. 

Father. 
Not  less  than  twenty,  I  can  tell  you.      ( To  his 
son,  Fedia.)      Take  the  colt  to  the  stable. 

Mother. 
Well,  have  we  won? 

Peasant. 
We  have  not,  damn  it  all.     It  will  never  come 
right. 

161 


1 62     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Kinswoman. 
But  what  is  it  all  about,  cousin?     I  don't  quite 
understand. 

Peasant. 
It  is  simply  that  Averian  has  taken  possession 
of  my  vegetable  garden  and  is  holding  it.     And  I 
can't  get  at  him  in  the  right  way. 

Wife. 

That  lawsuit  has  been  dragging  along  over  a 
year  now. 

Kinswoman. 

I  know,  I  know.  I  remember  as  far  back  as 
Lent,  when  the  matter  was  before  the  village 
court.  My  man  told  me  it  had  been  settled  in 
your  favour. 

Peasant. 

That  finished  it,  didn't  it?  But  Averian  ap- 
pealed to  the  head  of  the  Zemstvo,*  and  he  had 
the  whole  business  gone  into  again.  I  then  ap- 
pealed to  the  judge  and  won.  That  ought  to  have 
been  the  end  of  it.  But  it  wasn't.  After  that  he 
won.     Nice  sort  of  judges  they  are! 

Wife. 
What  are  we  to  do  now  ? 

*  Countv    council. 


ON  GOING  TO  LAW  163 

Peasant. 
I  won't  stand  his  having  my  property.     I  will 
appeal  to  the  higher  court,  I  have  already  had  a 
talk  with  a  lawyer. 

Kinswoman. 
But  suppose  they  take  his  side  in  the  upper 
court? 

Peasant. 
Then  I'll  go  to  the  Supreme  Court.     I'll  sell 
my  last  cow  before  I'll  give  in  to  that  fat  hound. 
I'll  teach  him  a  lesson. 

Kinswoman. 
A  lot  of  trouble  comes  from  these  trials,  a  lot  of 
trouble,  I  declare!     And  suppose  he  wins  again? 

Peasant. 
Then  I'll  appeal  to  the  Tsar.     Now  I  had  bet- 
ter go  out  and  give  the  pony  some  hay.      (Exit.) 

Petka. 
Why  do  they  judge  like  that,  some  saying  Aver- 
ian  is  right  and  some  daddy? 

Mother. 
Probably  because  they  don't  know  who  is  right 
themselves. 


1 64     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Petka. 
Then  why  ask  them,  if  they  don't  know? 

Mother. 
Because  nobody  wants  to  give  up  his  property. 

Petka. 
When  I  grow  up,  I  will  do  like  this :     If  I  have 
a  dispute  with  somebody,  we  will  cast  lots  and  see 
who  wins.     And  that  will  settle  it.     We  always 
settle  it  this  way  with  Akulika. 
Kinswoman. 
Don't  you  think,  cousin,  that  is  quite  a  good 
way?     One  sin  less,  anyhow. 
Mother. 
Quite  so.     What  a  lot  we  have  spent  on  that 
trial!     More  than  the  whole  vegetable  garden  is 
worth.     Oh,  it  is  a  sin,  a  great  sin  1 


ON  THE  CRIMINAL  COURT 

Children:  Grishka,  Semka,  Jishka. 

Jishka. 

Serves  him  right.  Why  did  he  make  his  way 
into  another  person's  corn  loft?  When  he  is  put 
in  prison  that  will  teach  him  not  to  do  it  another 
time. 

Semka. 

Of  course  if  he  has  really  done  it.  But  old 
Mikita  said  Mitrofan  was  run  into  prison  without 
being  guilty. 

Jishka. 
Without   being   guilty?     And  won't    anything 
happen  to  the  man  who  judged  him  falsely? 

Grishka. 

Well,  they  won't  pat  him  on  the  head  for  it,  of 
course.  If  he  hasn't  judged  according  to  law  he 
will  be  punished  too. 

165 


1 66     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Semka. 
Who  will  punish  him? 

Jishka. 
Those  above  him. 

Semka. 
Who  are  above  him? 

Grishka. 
His  superiors. 

Jishka. 
And  if  the  superiors  also  make  a  mistake? 

Grishka. 
There  are  higher  powers  above  them,  and  they 
will  be  punished  by  these.     That's  what  the  Tsar 
is  for. 

Jishka. 
But  if  the  Tsar  judges  wrong,  who  is  going  to 
punish  him? 

Grishka. 
Who?     Why   do  you   ask  that?     Don't   you 
know? 

Semka. 
God  will  punish  him. 

Jishka. 
God  will  also  punish  him  who  stole  the  corn 
from  the  loft.     Then  why  not  leave  it  to  God  to 


ON  THE  CRIMINAL  COURT      167 

punish  those  who  are  guilty?     He  will  not  judge 
wrong. 

Grishka. 
It's  clear  that  that  is  not  possible. 

JlSHKA. 

Why  not? 

Grishka. 
Because  .  .  . 


ON  PROPERTY 

An  old  carpenter  is  mending  the  railings  on  a 
veranda.  A  boy  of  seven,  the  son  of  the  master 
of  the  house,  is  watching  the  man  working. 

Boy. 
How  well  you  work!     What  is  your  name? 

Carpenter. 

My  name?  They  used  to  call  me  Hrolka,  and 
now  they  call  me  Hrol,  and  even  Hrol  Savich* 
when  they  speak  respectfully. 

Boy. 
How  well  you  work,  Frol  Savich. 

Carpenter. 
As  long  as  you  have  to  work,  you  may  as  well 
do  good  work. 

Boy. 
Have  you  got  a  veranda  in  your  house? 

*  The  name  is  Frol,  but  the  common  way  of  the  ignorant  masses 
is  to  use  //,  instead  of  F.  It  is  as  if  one  said  Johnny  then  John 
and  then  John  Smith. 

168 


ON  PROPERTY  169 

Carpenter. 
In  our  house?  We  have  a  veranda,  my  boy, 
yours  here  is  nothing  to  compare  with  it.  A  ver- 
anda with  no  windows.  And  if  you  step  on  to  it, 
well,  you  can't  believe  your  eyes.  That's  the  kind 
of  veranda  we've  got. 

Boy. 

You  are  making  fun.     No,  seriously,  tell  me : 
have  you  a  veranda  like  this?     I  want  to  know. 

Carpenter. 
My  dear  child,  how  can  the  likes  of  us  have  a 
veranda?  It's  a  blessing  if  we've  a  roof  over  our 
heads,  and  you  say,  "a  veranda!"  I've  been 
thinking  about  having  a  roof  built  ever  since  last 
spring.  I've  just  managed  to  pull  down  the  old 
one,  but  the  new  one  isn't  finished,  and  the  house 
is  standing  there  and  getting  damp  without  it. 

Boy. 

(surprised.)      But  why? 

Carpenter. 

Why?     Just  because  I  am  not  able  to  do  it. 

Boy. 

How  so?     If  you  are  able  to  work  for  us? 


i7o     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
Carpenter. 
I  can  work  all  right  for  you,  but  not  for  my- 
self. 

Boy. 

Why?     I   can't  understand.      Please   explain. 

Carpenter. 
You  will  understand  when  you  are  grown  up. 
I  am  able  to  do  your  work,  but  as  for  my  own,  I 
can't  do  it. 

Boy. 

But  why? 

Carpenter. 
Because  I  need  wood  for  that,  and  I  haven't  got 
any.  It  has  to  be  bought.  I  have  nothing  to  buy 
it  with.  When  I  have  finished  my  work  here, 
and  your  mother  pays  me,  just  you  tell  her  to  pay 
me  well.  Then  I'll  drive  to  the  forest,  get  five 
ash-trees  or  so  to  bring  home  and  finish  my  roof. 

Boy. 
Do  you  mean  you  haven't  a  forest  of  your  own? 

Carpenter. 

We  have  such  big  forests  that  you  can  walk 
three  whole  days  and  not  reach  the  end.  But, 
worse  luck,  they  don't  belong  to  us. 


ON  PROPERTY  171 

Boy. 

Mother  says  all  her  trouble  comes  from  our 
forest;  she  has  continual  worries  about  it. 

Carpenter. 

That's  the  worst  of  it.  Your  mother  is  worried 
by  having  too  much  wood,  and  I'm  worried  by 
having  none  at  all.  But  here  I  am  gabbling  with 
you  and  forgetting  my  work.  And  the  likes  of  us 
don't  get  made  much  of  for  doing  that. 

(Resumes  his  work.) 
Boy. 

When  I  grow  up  I  shall  arrange  to  have  just 
the  same  as  everybody  else,  so  that  all  of  us  are 
equal. 

Carpenter. 
Mind  you  grow  up  quickly,  that  I  may  still  be 
alive.     Then,     mind     you,     don't     forget.  .   .  . 
Where  have  I  put  my  plane? 


ON  CHILDREN 

A  Lady  with  her  children  —  a  SCHOOLBOY  of 
fourteen,  a  girl  of  five,  Janichka,  are  walking  in 
the  garden.  An  Old  Peasant  Woman  ap- 
proaches them. 

Lady. 
What  do  you  want,  Matresha? 

Old  Woman. 
I  have  come  again  to  ask  a  favour  of  your  lady- 
ship. 

Lady. 
What  is  it? 

Old  Woman. 
I  am  simply  ashamed  to  speak,  your  ladyship, 
but  that  don't  help.  My  daughter,  the  one  for 
whom  you  stood  godmother,  has  got  another  baby. 
God  has  given  her  a  boy  this  time.  She  sent  me 
to  ask  your  ladyship  if  you  would  do  her  a  favour, 
and  have  the  child  christened  into  our  Orthodox 
faith.* 

*  When  a  lady  in  Russia  stands  godmother  she  gives  the  chris- 
tening robes  and  a  dress  to  the  mother.     The  godfather  pays  the 
priest   and   gives  his  godchild   a  cross. 
172 


ON  CHILDREN  173 

Lady. 
But  didn't  she  have  a  child  very  recently? 

Old  Woman. 
Well,  that's  just  as  you  think.     A  year  ago  in 
Lent. 

Lady. 
How  many  grandchildren  have  you  got  now? 

Old  Woman. 
I  could  hardly  tell  you,  dear  lady.     All  of  them 
are  still  babes.     Such  a  misfortune! 

Lady. 
How  many  children  has  your  daughter? 

Old  Woman. 
This  is  the  seventh  child,  your  ladyship,  and  all 
alive.     I  wish  God  had  taken  some  back  to  Him. 

Lady. 
How  can  you  speak  like  that? 

Old  Woman. 
I  can't  help  it.     That's  how  one  comes  to  sin. 
But  then  our  misery  is  so  great.     Well,  your  lady- 
ship, are  you  willing  to  help  us,  and  stand  god- 
mother to  the  child?      Believe  me,   on  my  soul, 


i74  THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 
lady,  we  have  not  even  got  anything  to  pay  the 
priest;  bread  itself  is  scarce  in  the  house.  All  the 
children  are  small.  My  son-in-law  is  working 
away  from  home,  and  I  am  alone  with  my  daugh- 
ter. I  am  old,  and  she  is  expecting  or  nursing 
the  whole  time,  and  what  work  can  you  ask  her 
to  do  with  all  that?  So  it  is  me  that  has  to  do 
everything.  And  that  hungry  lot  all  the  while 
asking  for  food. 

Lady. 
Are  there  really  seven  children? 

Old  Woman. 

Seven,  your  ladyship,  sure.  Just  the  eldest  girl 
begins  to  help  a  bit;  all  the  rest  are  little. 

Lady. 
But  why  do  they  have  such  a  lot  of  children? 

Old  Woman. 

How  can  one  help  that,  dear  lady?  He  comes 
now  and  then  for  a  short  stay,  or  just  for  a  feast 
day.  They  are  young,  and  he  lives  near  in  town. 
I  wish  he  had  to  go  somewhere  far  away. 

Lady. 
That's  the  way!     Some  people  are  sad  because 


ON  CHILDREN  175 

they  have  no  children,  or  their  children  die,  and 
you  complain  of  having  too  many. 

Old  Woman. 
They  are  too  many.     We  have  not  the  means 
to  keep  them.     Well,  your  ladyship,  may  I  cheer 
her  up  with  your  consent? 

Lady. 
Well,  I  will  stand  godmother  to  this  one  like 
the  others.     It  is  a  boy,  you  say? 

Old  Woman. 
It's   a   small    baby,    but   very   strong;   he's   got 
good  lungs.     What  day  do  you  order  the  chris- 
tening to  be? 

Lady. 
Whenever  you  like. 

(Old  Woman  thanks  her  and  goes.) 

Janichka. 
Mother,  why  is  it  that  some  people  have  chil- 
dren and  some  have  not?     You  have,  Matresha, 
has,  but  Parasha  hasn't  any. 

Lady. 
Parasha  is  not  married.      People  have  children 
when    they   are    married.     They   marry,    become 
husband  and  wife,  and  then  only  children  come. 


176     THE  WISDOM  OF  CHILDREN 

Janiciika. 
Do  they  always  get  children  then? 

Lady. 
No,  not  always.     Our  cook  has  a  wife,  but  they 
have  no  children. 

Janichka. 
Couldn't   it  be   arranged   that  only  those  who 
want  children  should  have  them,  and  those  who 
don't  want  them  should  have  none? 

Schoolboy. 
What  nonsense  you  talk! 

Janichka. 
That  is  not  nonsense  at  all.  I  only  thought 
that  if  Matresha's  daughter  doesn't  want  to  have 
children,  it  ought  to  be  arranged  so  that  she 
shouldn't  have  any.  Couldn't  it  be  arranged, 
mother? 

Schoolboy. 
Have  I  not  told  you  not  to  talk  nonsense  about 
things  you  know  nothing  about? 

Janichka. 
Mother,  could  it  be  arranged  as  I  say? 

Lady. 
I  don't  know:  we  never  know  about  that.      It 
all  depends  on  the  will  of  God. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  177 

afraid  of  it  before.  And  now  I  don't  mind.  I 
only  wish  it  to  come  quicker." 

XVI 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  affairs  of  Eugene  Mihailo- 
vich  had  grown  worse  and  worse.  Business  was 
very  slack.  There  was  a  new  shop  in  the  town; 
he  was  losing  his  customers,  and  the  interest  had 
to  be  paid.  He  borrowed  again  on  interest.  At 
last  his  shop  and  his  goods  were  to  be  sold  up. 
Eugene  Mihailovich  and  his  wife  applied  to  every 
one  they  knew,  but  they  could  not  raise  the  four 
hundred  roubles  they  needed  to  save  the  shop  any- 
where. 

They  had  some  hope  of  the  merchant  Krasno- 
puzov,  Eugene  Mihailovich's  wife  being  on  good 
terms  with  his  mistress.  But  news  came  that 
Krasnopuzov  had  been  robbed  of  a  huge  sum  of 
money.  Some  said  of  half  a  million  roubles. 
11  And  do  you  know  who  is  said  to  be  the  thief?  " 
said  Eugene  Mihailovich  to  his  wife.  "  Vassily, 
our  former  yard-porter.  They  say  he  is  squan- 
dering the  money,  and  the  police  are  bribed  by 
him." 

"  I  knew  he  was  a  villain.  You  remember  how 
he  did  not  mind  perjuring  himself?  But  I  did 
not  expect  it  would  go  so  far." 


178  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"  I  hear  he  has  recently  been  in  the  courtyard 
of  our  house.  Cook  says  she  is  sure  it  was  he. 
She  told  me  he  helps  poor  girls  to  get  married." 

"  They  always  invent  tales.  I  don't  believe 
it." 

At  that  moment  a  strange  man,  shabbily  dressed, 
entered  the  shop. 

"  What  is  it  you  want?  " 

"  Here  is  a  letter  for  you." 

"  From  whom?  " 

"  You  will  see  yourself." 

"  Don't  you  require  an  answer?  Wait  a  mo- 
ment." 

"  I  cannot."  The  strange  man  handed  the  let- 
ter and  disappeared. 

"How  extraordinary!"  said  Eugene  Mihailo- 
vich,  and  tore  open  the  envelope.  To  his  great 
amazement  several  hundred  rouble  notes  fell  out. 
"  Four  hundred  roubles !  "  he  exclaimed,  hardly 
believing  his  eyes.      "  What  does  it  mean?  " 

The  envelope  also  contained  a  badly-spelt  letter, 
addressed  to  Eugene  Mihailovich.  "  It  is  said  in 
the  Gospels,"  ran  the  letter,  "  do  good  for  evil. 
You  have  done  me  much  harm;  and  in  the  coupon 
case  you  made  me  wrong  the  peasants  greatly. 
But  I  have  pity  for  you.  Here  are  four  hundred 
notes.  Take  them,  and  remember  your  porter 
Vassily." 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  179 

"Very  extraordinary!"  said  Eugene  Mihailo- 
vlch  to  his  wife  and  to  himself.  And  each  time 
he  remembered  that  incident,  or  spoke  about  it 
to  his  wife,  tears  would  come  to  his  eyes. 

XVII 

Fourteen  priests  were  kept  in  the  Suzdal  friary 
prison,  chiefly  for  having  been  untrue  to  the  or- 
thodox faith.  Isidor  had  been  sent  to  that  place 
also.  Father  Missael  received  him  according  to 
the  instructions  he  had  been  given,  and  without 
talking  to  him  ordered  him  to  be  put  into  a  sep- 
arate cell  as  a  serious  criminal.  After  a  fort- 
night Father  Missael,  making  a  round  of  the 
prison,  entered  Isidor's  cell,  and  asked  him 
whether  there  was  anything  he  wished  for. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  I  wish  for,"  answered 
Isidor;  "but  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  is  in  the 
presence  of  anybody  else.  Let  me  talk  to  you 
privately." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  Missael  saw  he 
had  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  in  remaining  alone 
with  Isidor.  He  ordered  Isidor  to  be  brought 
into  his  own  room,  and  when  they  were  alone,  he 
said, — 

"  Well,  now  you  can  speak." 

Isidor  fell  on  his  knees. 


180  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

11  Brother,"  said  Isidor.  "  What  are  you  do- 
ing to  yourself!  Have  mercy  on  your  own  soul. 
You  are  the  worst  villain  in  the  world.  You  have 
offended  against  all  that  is  sacred     .     .     ." 

A  month  after  Missael  sent  a  report,  asking 
that  Isidor  should  be  released  as  he  had  repented, 
and  he  also  asked  for  the  release  of  the  rest  of 
the  prisoners.     After  which  he  resigned  his  post. 


XVIII 

Ten  years  passed.  Mitia  Smokovnikov  had  fin- 
ished his  studies  in  the  Technical  College;  he  was 
now  an  engineer  in  the  gold  mines  in  Siberia,  and 
was  very  highly  paid.  One  day  he  was  about  to 
make  a  round  in  the  district.  The  governor  of- 
fered him  a  convict,  Stepan  Pelageushkine,  to  ac- 
company him  on  his  journey. 

"  A  convict,  you  say?  But  is  not  that  danger- 
ous?" 

"  Not  if  it  is  this  one.  He  is  a  holy  man.  You 
may  ask  anybody,  they  will  all  tell  you  so." 

"Why  has  he  been  sent  here?" 

The  governor  smiled.  "  He  had  committed  six 
murders,  and  yet  he  is  a  holy  man.  I  go  bail  for 
him." 

Mitia  Smokovnikov  took  Stepan,  now  a  bald- 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  181 

headed,  lean,  tanned  man,  with  him  on  his  journey. 
On  their  way  Stepan  took  care  of  Smokovnikov 
like  his  own  child,  and  told  him  his  story;  told 
him  why  he  had  been  sent  here,  and  what  now 
filled  his  life. 

And,  strange  to  say,  Mitia  Smokovnikov,  who 
up  to  that  time  used  to  spend  his  time  drinking, 
eating,  and  gambling,  began  for  the  first  time  to 
meditate  on  life.  These  thoughts  never  left  him 
now,  and  produced  a  complete  change  in  his  habits. 
After  a  time  he  was  offered  a  very  advantageous 
position.  He  refused  it,  and  made  up  his  mind 
to  buy  an  estate  with  the  money  he  had,  to  marry, 
and  to  devote  himself  to  the  peasantry,  helping 
them  as  much  as  he  could. 

XIX 

He  carried  out  his  intentions.  But  before  retiring 
to  his  estate  he  called  on  his  father,  with  whom 
he  had  been  on  bad  terms,  and  who  had  settled 
apart  with  his  new  family.  Mitia  Smokovnikov 
wanted  to  make  it  up.  The  old  man  wondered  at 
first,  and  laughed  at  the  change  he  noticed  in  his 
son;  but  after  a  while  he  ceased  to  find  fault  with 
him,  and  thought  of  the  many  times  when  it  was 
he  who  was  the  guilty  one. 


AFTER  THE  DANCE 


AFTER  THE  DANCE 

" —  And  you  say  that  a  man  cannot,  of  himself, 
understand  what  is  good  and  evil;  that  it  is  all 
environment,  that  the  environment  swamps  the 
man.  But  I  believe  it  is  all  chance.  Take  my 
own  case     .     .     ." 

Thus  spoke  our  excellent  friend,  Ivan  Vasilie- 
vich,  after  a  conversation  between  us  on  the  impos- 
sibility of  improving  individual  character  without 
a  change  of  the  conditions  under  which  men  live. 
Nobody  had  actually  said  that  one  could  not  of 
oneself  understand  good  and  evil;  but  it  was  a 
habit  of  Ivan  Vasilievich  to  answer  in  this  way  the 
thoughts  aroused  in  his  own  mind  by  conversation, 
and  to  illustrate  those  thoughts  by  relating  inci- 
dents in  his  own  life.  He  often  quite  forgot  the 
reason  for  his  story  in  telling  it;  but  he  always  told 
it  with  great  sincerity  and  feeling. 

He  did  so  now. 

"Take  my  own  case.  My  whole  life  was 
moulded,  not  by  environment,  but  by  something 
quite  different." 

"  By  what,  then  ?  "  we  asked. 

"  Oh,  that  is  a  long  story.  I  should  have  to 
185 


i86  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

tell  you  about  a  great  many  things  to  make  you 
understand." 

"  Well,  tell  us  then." 

Ivan  Vasilievich  thought  a  little,  and  shook  his 
head. 

"  My  whole  life,"  he  said,  "  was  changed  in  one 
night,  or,  rather,  morning." 

"  Why,  what  happened?  "  one  of  us  asked. 

"  What  happened  was  that  I  was  very  much  in 
love.  I  have  been  in  love  many  times,  but  this 
was  the  most  serious  of  all.  It  is  a  thing  of  the 
past;   she   has   married   daughters   now.     It  was 

Varinka  B ."      Ivan  Vasilievich  mentioned  her 

surname.  "  Even  at  fifty  she  is  remarkably  hand- 
some; but  in  her  youth,  at  eighteen,  she  was  ex- 
quisite —  tall,  slender,  graceful,  and  stately.  Yes, 
stately  is  the  word;  she  held  herself  very  erect,  by 
instinct  as  it  were;  and  carried  her  head  high,  and 
that  together  with  her  beauty  and  height  gave  her 
a  queenly  air  in  spite  of  being  thin,  even  bony  one 
might  sav.  It  might  indeed  have  been  deterring 
had  it  not  been  for  her  smile,  which  was  always 
gay  and  cordial,  and  for  the  charming  light  in 
her  eyes  and  for  her  youthful  sweetness." 

"  What  an  entrancing  description  you  give,  Ivan 
Vasilievich!" 

"  Description,  indeed !  I  could  not  possibly  de- 
scribe her  so  that  you  could  appreciate  her.     But 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  187 

that  does  not  matter;  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
happened  in  the  forties.  I  was  at  that  time  a 
student  in  a  provincial  university.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  was  a  good  thing  or  no,  but  we  had  no 
political  clubs,  no  theories  in  our  universities  then. 
We  were  simply  young  and  spent  our  time  as  young 
men  do,  studying  and  amusing  ourselves.  I  was  a 
very  gay,  lively,  careless  fellow,  and  had  plenty  of 
money  too.  I  had  a  fine  horse,  and  used  to  go 
tobogganing  with  the  young  ladies.  Skating  had 
not  yet  come  into  fashion.  I  went  to  drinking 
parties  with  my  comrades  —  in  those  days  we 
drank  nothing  but  champagne  —  if  we  had  no 
champagne  we  drank  nothing  at  all.  We  never 
drank  vodka,  as  they  do  now.  Evening  parties 
and  balls  were  my  favourite  amusements.  I 
danced  well,  and  was  not  an  ugly  fellow." 

"  Come,  there  is  no  need  to  be  modest,"  inter- 
rupted a  lady  near  him.  "  We  have  seen  your 
photograph.  Not  ugly,  indeed!  You  were  a 
handsome  fellow." 

"  Handsome,  if  you  like.  That  does  not  mat- 
ter. When  my  love  for  her  was  at  its  strongest, 
on  the  last  day  of  the  carnival,  I  was  at  a  ball  at 
the  provincial  marshal's,  a  good-natured  old  man, 
rich  and  hospitable,  and  a  court  chamberlain.  The 
guests  were  welcomed  by  his  wife,  who  was  as 
good-natured    as    himself.      She    was    dressed    in 


1 88  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

puce-coloured  velvet,  and  had  a  diamond  diadem 
on  her  forehead,  and  her  plump,  old  white  shoul- 
ders and  bosom  were  bare  like  the  portraits  of 
Empress  Elizabeth,  the  daughter  of  Peter  the 
Great. 

"  It  was  a  delightful  ball.  It  was  a  splendid 
room,  with  a  gallery  for  the  orchestra,  which  was 
famous  at  the  time,  and  consisted  of  serfs  belong- 
ing to  a  musical  landowner.  The  refreshments 
were  magnificent,  and  the  champagne  flowed  in 
rivers.  Though  I  was  fond  of  champagne  I  did 
not  drink  that  night,  because  without  it  I  was 
drunk  with  love.  But  I  made  up  for  it  by  danc- 
ing waltzes  and  polkas  till  I  was  ready  to  drop  — 
of  course,  whenever  possible,  with  Varinka.  She 
wore  a  white  dress  with  a  pink  sash,  white  shoes, 
and  white  kid  gloves,  which  did  not  quite  reach  to 
her  thin  pointed  elbows.  A  disgusting  engineer 
named  Anisimov  robbed  me  of  the  mazurka  with 
her  —  to  this  day  I  cannot  forgive  him.  He  asked 
her  for  the  dance  the  minute  she  arrived,  while 
I  had  driven  to  the  hair-dresser's  to  get  a  pair  of 
gloves,  and  was  late.  So  I  did  not  dance  the 
mazurka  with  her,  but  with  a  German  girl  to  whom 
I  had  previously  paid  a  little  attention;  but  I  am 
afraid  I  did  not  behave  very  politely  to  her  that 
evening.  I  hardly  spoke  or  looked  at  her,  and  saw 
nothing  but  the  tall,  slender  figure  in  a  white  dress, 


Alexander  the  First. 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  189 

with  a  pink  sash,  a  flushed,  beaming,  dimpled 
face,  and  sweet,  kind  eyes.  I  was  not  alone;  they 
were  all  looking  at  her  with  admiration,  the  men 
and  women  alike,  although  she  outshone  all  of 
them.     They  could  not  help  admiring  her. 

"  Although  I  was  not  nominally  her  partner  for 
the  mazurka,  I  did  as  a  matter  of  fact  dance  nearly 
the  whole  time  with  her.  She  always  came  for- 
ward boldly  the  whole  length  of  the  room  to  pick 
me  out.  I  flew  to  meet  her  without  waiting  to  be 
chosen,  and  she  thanked  me  with  a  smile  for  my 
intuition.  When  I  was  brought  up  to  her  with 
somebody  else,  and  she  guessed  wrongly,  she  took 
the  other  man's  hand  with  a  shrug  of  her  slim 
shoulders,  and  smiled  at  me  regretfully. 

"  Whenever  there  was  a  waltz  figure  in  the 
mazurka,  I  waltzed  with  her  for  a  long  time,  and 
breathing  fast  and  smiling,  she  would  say,  '  En- 
core ' ;  and  I  went  on  waltzing  and  waltzing,  as 
though   unconscious   of   any   bodily   existence." 

"  Come  now,  how  could  you  be  unconscious  of 
it  with  your  arm  round  her  waist?  You  must 
have  been  conscious,  not  only  of  your  own  exist- 
ence, but  of  hers,"  said  one  of  the  party. 

Ivan  Vasilievich  cried  out,  almost  shouting  in 
anger:  "  There  you  are,  moderns  all  over!  Now- 
adays you  think  of  nothing  but  the  body.  It  was 
different  in  our  day.     The  more  I  was  in  love  the 


1 9o  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

less  corporeal  was  she  in  my  eyes.  Nowadays  you 
think  of  nothing  but  the  body.  It  was  different 
in  our  day.  The  more  I  was  in  love  the  less  cor- 
poreal was  she  in  my  eyes.  Nowadays  you  see 
legs,  ankles,  and  I  don't  know  what.  You  undress 
the  women  you  are  in  love  with.  In  my  eyes,  as 
Alphonse  Karr  said  —  and  he  was  a  good  writer 
— '  the  one  I  loved  was  always  draped  in  robes  of 
bronze.'  We  never  thought  of  doing  so;  we  tried 
to  veil  her  nakedness,  like  Noah's  good-natured 
son.      Oh,  well,  you  can't  understand." 

"  Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him.  Go  on,"  said 
one  of  them. 

"  Well,  I  danced  for  the  most  part  with  her, 
and  did  not  notice  how  time  was  passing.  The 
musicians  kept  playing  the  same  mazurka  tunes 
over  and  over  again  in  desperate  exhaustion  —  you 
know  what  it  is  towards  the  end  of  a  ball.  Papas 
and  mammas  were  already  getting  up  from  the 
card-tables  in  the  drawing-room  in  expectation  of 
supper,  the  men-servants  were  running  to  and 
fro  bringing  in  things.  It  was  nearly  three 
o'clock.  I  had  to  make  the  most  of  the  last 
minutes.  I  chose  her  again  for  the  mazurka,  and 
for  the  hundredth  time  we  danced  across  the 
room. 

"  '  The  quadrille  after  supper  is  mine,'  I  said, 
taking  her  to  her  place. 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  191 

"  '  Of  course,  if  I  am  not  carried  off  home,'  she 
said,  with  a  smile. 

"  '  I  won't  give  you  up,'  I  said. 

"  '  Give  me  my  fan,  anyhow,'  she  answered. 

"  '  I  am  so  sorry  to  part  with  it,'  I  said,  handing 
her  a  cheap  white  fan. 

"  '  Well,  here's  something  to  console  you,'  she 
said,  plucking  a  feather  out  of  the  fan,  and  giving 
it  to  me. 

"  I  took  the  feather,  and  could  only  express  my 
rapture  and  gratitude  with  my  eyes.  I  was  not 
only  pleased  and  gay,  I  was  happy,  delighted;  I 
was  good,  I  was  not  myself  but  some  being  not 
of  this  earth,  knowing  nothing  of  evil.  I  hid  the 
feather  in  my  glove,  and  stood  there  unable  to 
tear  myself  away  from  her. 

"  '  Look,  they  are  urging  father  to  dance,'  she 
said  to  me,  pointing  to  the  tall,  stately  figure  of 
her  father,  a  colonel  with  silver  epaulettes,  who 
was  standing  in  the  doorway  with  some  ladies. 

"  '  Varinka,  come  here!  '  exclaimed  our  hostess, 
the  lady  with  the  diamond  ferronniere  and  with 
shoulders  like  Elizabeth,  in  a  loud  voice. 

"  Varinka  went  to  the  door,  and  I  followed  her. 

"  '  Persuade  your  father  to  dance  the  mazurka 
with  you,  ma  chere. — Do,  please,  Peter  Valdislavo- 
vich,'  she  said,  turning  to  the  colonel. 

"  Varinka's  father  was  a  very  handsome,  well- 


i92  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

preserved  old  man.  He  had  a  good  colour,  mous- 
taches curled  in  the  style  of  Nicolas  I.,  and  white 
whiskers  which  met  the  moustaches.  His  hair  was 
combed  on  to  his  forehead,  and  a  bright  smile, 
like  his  daughter's,  was  on  his  lips  and  in  his  eyes. 
He  was  splendidly  set  up,  with  a  broad  military 
chest,  on  which  he  wore  some  decorations,  and  he 
had  powerful  shoulders  and  long  slim  legs.  He 
was  that  ultra-military  type  produced  by  the  disci- 
pline of  Emperor  Nicolas  I. 

"  When  we  approached  the  door  the  colonel  was 
just  refusing  to  dance,  saying  that  he  had  quite  for- 
gotten how;  but  at  that  instant  he  smiled,  swung 
his  arm  gracefully  around  to  the  left,  drew  his 
sword  from  its  sheath,  handed  it  to  an  obliging 
young  man  who  stood  near,  and  smoothed  his 
suede  glove  on  his  right  hand. 

"  '  Everything  must  be  done  according  to  rule,' 
he  said  with  a  smile.  He  took  the  hand  of  his 
daughter,  and  stood  one-quarter  turned,  waiting 
for  the  music. 

"  At  the  first  sound  of  the  mazurka,  he  stamped 
one  foot  smartly,  threw  the  other  forward,  and, 
at  first  slowly  and  smoothly,  then  buoyantly  and 
impetuously,  with  stamping  of  feet  and  clicking  of 
boots,  his  tall,  imposing  figure  moved  the  length 
of  the  room.  Varinka  -swayed  gracefully  beside 
him,    rhythmically   and   easily,   making   her  steps 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  193 

help,  I  prayed  to  the  God  of  the  Orthodox  Church ; 
then  I  turned  to  the  Catholic;  then  to  the  Protes- 
tant with  Parrot;  then  to  the  god  of  the  Mystics 
with  Krudener;  but  I  only  prayed  that  others 
might  see  and  be  filled  with  admiration  of  me.  I 
used  to  despise  everybody,  yet  the  opinion  of  the 
very  people  I  despised  was  the  one  thing  of  im- 
portance to  me  —  the  only  thing  for  which  I  lived, 
and  which  guided  all  my  actions.  It  was  terrible 
to  be  left  alone.  Still  more  terrible  to  be  alone 
with  her  —  with  my  wife.  Consumptive,  narrow- 
minded,  deceitful,  capricious,  spiteful,  hypocriti- 
cal, she  did  more  to  poison  my  life  than  anything 
else.  Nous  etious  censes  to  spend  our  new  lune 
de  miel,  a  very  hell  clothed  in  decent  garb,  too 
horrible  to  think  of. 

I  felt  particularly  wretched  on  one  occasion.  I 
had  received  a  letter  from  Arakcheev  the  night 
before,  in  which  he  informed  me  about  the  assassi- 
nation of  his  mistress,  and  spoke  of  his  utter  grief 
and  despair.  Strange  to  say,  in  spite  of  his  con- 
stant subtle  flattery,  I  liked  him.  It  was  not 
altogether  flattery,  perhaps,  but  a  real  dog-like 
devotion,  which  began  even  in  my  father's  time, 
when  we  both  took  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  him 
unknown  to  my  grandmother.  This  devotion  of 
his  made  me  love  him  —  if  I  loved  any  man  at  that 
time  —  although  the  word  love  can  hardly  be  used 


i94  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

in  connection  with  such  a  monster.  What  drew 
me  to  him  particularly  was  the  fact  that  not  only 
had  he  no  hand  in  my  father's  death,  as  so  many 
others  had  who  became  hateful  to  me  afterwards 
as  accomplices  in  my  crime,  but  he  had  been  de- 
voted alike  to  him  and  to  me.  However,  of  this 
later. 

Strange  to  say,  the  murder  of  the  beautiful, 
wicked  Nastasia  —  she  was  a  sensuous  beauty  — 
had  the  effect  of  arousing  all  my  desires  so  that  I 
could  not  sleep  the  whole  night.  The  fact  that 
my  consumptive  wife,  whom  I  loathed,  was  lying 
in  the  room  next  but  one  to  me,  coupled  with 
thoughts  of  Mary  Narishkin,  who  had  thrown  me 
over  for  an  insignificant  diplomat,  vexed  and  tor- 
mented me  still  more.  Both  my  father  and  I 
seemed  to  have  been  doomed  to  be  jealous  of  the 
Gagarins.  But  I  was  carried  away  again.  I 
could  not  sleep  the  whole  of  that  night.  With  the 
first  signs  of  dawn  I  pulled  up  my  blind,  slipped 
on  a  white  dressing-gown,  and  rang  for  my  valet. 
Every  one  was  still  asleep.  I  dressed,  put  on  a 
civilian  overcoat  and  cap,  and  went  out  past  the 
sentinels  into  the  street. 

It  was  a  cool,  autumn  morning,  the  sun  was  just 
rising  over  the  sea.  I  felt  revived  in  the  fresh 
air,  and  my  depressing  thoughts  left  me.  I  turned 
my  steps  towards  the  sea.     The  first  rays  of  the 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  195 

rising  sun  were  dancing  about  on  its  surface.  I 
had  barely  reached  the  green-coloured  house  at  the 
corner  when  I  was  attracted  by  sounds  of  drum- 
ming and  piping  from  the  square.  I  listened  for 
a  moment,  and  guessed  that  a  punishment  was 
going  on,  that  some  one  was  running  the  gauntlet. 
I  had  frequently  sanctioned  this  form  of  punish- 
ment, but  had  never  seen  it  before.  All  at  once, 
as  though  at  the  instigation  of  Satan  himself,  a 
picture  rose  up  in  my  mind  of  the  beautiful  Nas- 
tasia  who  had  been  murdered,  and  of  the  soldier's 
body  as  it  was  being  lashed  with  sticks,  the  two 
mingling  together  in  one  maddening  sensation. 
I  tried  to  recall  this  punishment  in  the  Semijonov 
regiment,  amongst  the  military  settlers,  hundreds 
of  whom  had  been  flogged  to  death  in  this  way, 
and  was  suddenly  seized  by  an  overwhelming  de- 
sire to  witness  this  sight.  As  I  was  in  civilian 
garb,  it  was  quite  possible  for  me  to  do  so.  The 
beating  of  the  drum  and  the  sound  of  the  pipes 
grew  louder  as  I  drew  nearer  the  square.  Being 
short-sighted,  I  could  not  see  very  well  without 
my  glasses,  but  I  could  just  make  out  a  tall  figure 
with  a  white  back,  marching  along  between  two 
rows  of  soldiers.  When  I  joined  the  crowd  stand- 
ing behind,  I  got  out  my  glasses,  and  could  see 
everything  that  was  going  on  distinctly.  A  tall 
man  with  his  bare  arms  tied  to  a  bayonet,  his  bare 


196  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

back  —  on  which  the  blood  was  beginning  to  show 
itself  —  slightly  bent,  was  walking  down  an 
avenue  of  soldiers  armed  with  sticks.  This  man 
was  the  image  of  myself  —  my  double!  The 
same  height,  stooping  shoulders,  bald  head,  the 
same  kind  of  whiskers  without  a  moustache,  the 
same  cheek-bones,  mouth,  and  blue  eyes.  But 
there  was  no  smile  on  those  lips  that  opened  and 
contorted  with  pain  at  the  blows,  no  tender,  caress- 
ing expression  in  those  eves  that  protruded  horri- 
bly, now  closing,  now  opening. 

I  recognised  him  at  once.  It  was  Strumensky, 
a  corporal  in  the  third  company  of  the  Semijonov 
regiment,  well  known  to  the  guards  by  his  likeness 
to  me.  They  used  to  call  him  Alexander  II.  in 
fun.  I  knew  that  he  had  been  transferred  to  the 
garrison,  together  with  some  other  rebels,  and  had 
most  likely  tried  to  escape  or  something  of  the 
sort,  and  having  been  caught,  was  undergoing  pun- 
ishment. I  confirmed  this  afterwards.  I  stood 
as  one  petrified,  gazing  atthe  unfortunate  man,  as 
he  was  marching  along  under  the  blows.  Sud- 
denly I  noticed  that  the  crowd  was  staring  at  me, 
some  people  stepping  aside,  others  approaching 
nearer.  I  had  evidently  been  recognised;  I  turned 
my  steps  quickly  homewards.  The  drumming  and 
piping  continued,  so  I  gathered  that  the  flogging 
was  not  yet  over. 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  197 

My  first  sensation  on  getting  away  was  that  my 
sympathies  ought  to  be  on  the  side  of  those  who 
were  inflicting  the  punishment;  at  any  rate,  that 
I  ought  to  acknowledge  that  what  they  were  doing 
was  right,  good,  and  necessary.  But  I  could  not 
do  this,  and  was  at  the  same  time  conscious  that 
if  I  did  not  acknowledge  it,  I  must  admit  that  my 
whole  life  had  been  wrong  from  beginning  to  end, 
and  that  I  ought  to  do  what  I  had  long  ago 
wanted  to  do  —  throw  up  everything,  go  away, 
and  disappear. 

I  was  completely  overwhelmed  by  this  sensation. 
I  tried  to  fight  against  it,  now  assuring  myself  that 
the  thing  was  right,  a  grievous  necessity  that  could 
not  be  dispensed  with;  now  feeling  that  I  ought 
to  be  in  the  unfortunate  man's  place.  Strange  to 
say,  I  did  not  pity  the  man  in  the  least.  Instead 
of  doing  anything  to  stop  the  proceeding,  I  has- 
tened home  merely  to  avoid  recognition.  Soon  the 
drumming  ceased,  and  the  disturbing  sensation 
somehow  left  me.  I  had  some  tea  on  reaching 
home,  and  received  Volkonsky  with  his  report. 
Then  there  was  breakfast,  the  usual  burdensome, 
insincere  relations  with  my  wife;  then  Dibich,  and 
another  report  dealing  with  certain  informations 
about  a  secret  society.  With  God's  grace  I  will 
deal  with  this  more  fully  in  its  proper  place.  I 
will  merely  say  now  that  I  received  the  informa- 


i98  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

tion  with  outward  composure.  I  continued  in  a 
more  or  less  calm  state  until  dinner  came  to  an  end, 
when  I  went  into  my  study,  lay  down  on  the 
couch,  and  dozed  off.  I  had  scarcely  been  asleep 
for  five  minutes  when  I  was  suddenly  awakened 
by  a  powerful  shock.  I  distinctly  heard  the  beat- 
ing of  the  drum,  the  sound  of  the  pipes  and  Stru- 
mensky's  cries.  I  saw  his  agonised  face,  or  mine 
—  I  was  not  quite  sure  which;  whether  it  was  Stru- 
mensky  or  myself  —  and  the  grim  contorted  faces 
of  the  soldiers  and  officers.  I  remained  in  this 
trance  for  a  short  time,  and  when  I  came  to  my- 
self put  on  my  hat  and  sword,  and  went  out  say- 
ing that  I  was  going  for  a  walk.  I  knew  where 
the  military  hospital  was  situated,  and  directed  my 
steps  straight  there.  My  appearance  caused  a 
great  tumult  as  usual.  The  chief  doctor  and  head 
of  the  staff  came  running  up  breathless.  I  told 
them  that  I  wished  to  inspect  the  wards.  On  my 
round  I  caught  sight  of  Strumensky's  bald  head  in 
the  second  ward.  He  was  lying  face  downwards, 
his  head  resting  on  his  arm,  moaning  pitifully. 
"  He's  been  punished  for  desertion,"  some  one 
said  to  me. 

"  Ah !  "  I  exclaimed,  with  my  usual  gesture  of 
approval,  and  walked  on. 

The  next  day  I  sent  a  messenger  to  ask  how 
he  was,  and  learnt  that  he  had  received  the  sacra- 
ment and  was  dying. 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  199 

It  was  my  brother  Michael's  name-day;  there 
was  a  special  service  and  parade.  I  feigned  to  be 
unwell,  as  a  result  of  my  recent  journey  from  the 
Crimea,  and  did  not  go  to  church.  Dibich  came 
again  and  continued  his  report  about  the  conspir- 
acy in  the  second  army.  He  drew  my  attention  to 
what  Count  Vitt  had  said  before  my  Crimean  visit, 
and  to  the  information  that  had  been  received  from 
Corporal  Sherwood.  Whilst  listening  to  Dibich, 
and  seeing  the  immense  importance  he  attached  to 
these  plots  and  conspiracies,  I  was  suddenly  struck 
by  the  full  significance  of  the  revolution  that  had 
taken  place  within  me.  All  these  people  were 
conspiring  to  change  the  form  of  government, 
to  set  up  a  constitution,  the  very  thing  I  had  my- 
self wanted  to  do  twenty  years  ago.  I  had 
made  and  unmade  constitutions  in  Europe,  but 
was  there  one  soul  the  better  for  it?  What  right 
had  I  to  take  such  a  task  upon  myself?  In  re- 
ality external  life,  external  affairs  and  participa- 
tion in  them  were  unimportant,  unnecessary,  and 
had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  me.  Had  I  not 
participated  in  them  to  the  full,  changed  the  fates 
of  European  nations?  I  suddenly  realised  that 
this  did  not  concern  me,  that  the  only  thing  of 
importance  to  me,  was  myself  —  my  soul.  My 
former  ideas  about  abdication  came  back  to  me 
with  new  force.  This  time  it  was  without  any 
affectation,  without  any  desire  to  grieve  others, 


200  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

to  astonish  the  world,  or  to  add  to  my  own  ag- 
grandisement—  all  the  things  that  had  prompted 
■me  formerly;  but  it  was  with  a  real  sincerity,  not 
for  the  sake  of  impressing  others,  but  for  myself 
—  for  the  needs  of  my  own  soul.  It  seemed  as  if 
I  had  gone  through  my  brilliant  career  (in  the 
worldly  sense  of  course),  in  order  to  return  to 
that  dream  of  my  youth,  which  had  reached  me 
through  penitence.  I  had  come  back  to  it  with  no 
feeling  of  vanity  or  desire  for  self  glorification;  it 
was  for  my  true  self  alone,  for  God.  In  my  youth 
the  idea  had  not  been  quite  clear  to  me,  but  now 
it  seemed  to  me  impossible  to  go  on  living  as  I 
had  been  doing.  Nevertheless  how  could  I  es- 
cape? I  no  longer  wished  to  astonish  the  world, 
but  on  the  contrary  wanted  to  go  away  quietly, 
unknown  to  any  one  —  to  go  away  and  suffer.  I 
was  so  filled  with  joy  at  the  idea  that  I  began 
considering  ways  and  means  of  accomplishing  it, 
and  used  all  the  resources  of  my  mind  and  my 
peculiar  subtleness  to  bring  it  about.  Curiously 
enough  it  was  not  nearly  so  difficult  as  I  had 
anticipated.  My  plan  was  to  feign  a  dangerous 
illness,  bribe  the  doctor,  get  Strumensky,  who  was 
dying,  put  in  my  place,  and  flee  without  disclosing 
my  identity  to  any  one. 

Everything    turned    out    favourably.     On    the 
9th,  by  some  peculiar  fate,  I  fell  ill  of  a  fever.     I 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  201 

stayed  in  bed  for  about  a  week,  during  which  time 
I  considered  my  idea  thoroughly,  and  became 
more  confirmed  in  it.  On  the  16th  I  got  up  feel- 
ing quite  well  again. 

F  shaved  as  usual  on  that  day  and  cut  myself 
rather  badly.  I  bled  a  great  deal,  and  feeling 
faint  dropped  down  on  the  floor.  People  came 
rushing  in,  and  I  was  immediately  raised.  I  could 
see  at  a  glance  that  the  incident  might  prove 
useful  to  my  purpose,  and  though  I  had  quite  re- 
covered, pretended  to  be  very  weak,  and  going 
back  to  bed  and  asked  for  Doctor  Villier's  assist- 
ant. I  knew  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
bribe  Villier,  but  I  had  hopes  of  his  assistant.  I 
told  him  of  my  purpose  and  offered  him  eighty 
thousand  roubles,  if  he  would  do  everything  I 
wanted  of  him. 

I  had  hit  on  the  following  plan,  having  heard 
that  Strumensky  was  not  expected  to  live  through 
the  day,  I  pretended  to  be  irritated  and  annoyed 
with  everybody,  and  allowed  no  one  to  come  near 
.me  except  the  young  doctor,  whom  I  had  bribed. 
He  was  to  bring  Strumensky's  body  hidden  in  a 
bath,  put  him  in  my  place,  and  announce  my  sud- 
den death.  It  all  happened  as  we  had  arranged 
it,  and  on  the  7th  day  of  November  I  was  a  free 
man. 

Strumensky's  body  was  buried  in  great  state. 


202  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

My  brother  Nicholas  came  to  the  throne,  con- 
demning the  conspirators  to  hard  labour.  I  met 
several  of  them  later  in  Siberia.  I  have  suffered 
very  little  in  comparison  to  the  enormity  of  my 
crime,  and  have  enjoyed  the  greatest  of  all  hap- 
piness.    But  I  will  speak  of  this  in  due  course. 

An  old  man  of  seventy-two,  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave,  fully  realising  the  vanity  of  my  former  life 
and  the  deep  significance  of  my  present  one  as 
a  wanderer,  I  will  now  endeavour  to  relate  the 
whole  story  of  the  past. 

II 

THE    STORY    OF    MY    LIFE 

December    12,    1849, 
Near    Krasnorechinsk,    Siberia. 

To-day  is  my  birthday.  I  have  reached  my 
seventy-second  year.  Exactly  seventy-two  years 
ago  I  was  born  in  the  Winter  Palace  in  St.  Peters- 
burg. My  mother,  the  Empress,  was  then  the 
Grand  Duchess  Maria  Fedorovna. 

I  slept  well  last  night,  and  feel  better  than  I  did 
yesterday.  I  have  come  out  of  my  spiritual  torpor 
and  can  turn  once  more  to  God.  During  the 
night  I  prayed  in  the  darkness,  and  a  conscious- 
ness came  upon  me  that  my  one  and  only  purpose  in 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  203 

life  was  to  serve  Him  who  had  sent  me  into  the 
world. 

It  is  within  my  own  power  either  to  serve  or 
not  to  serve  Him.  Serving  Him  I  add  to  my  own 
good  and  to  the  good  of  the  whole  world;  not 
serving  Him  I  forfeit  my  own  good,  and  deprive 
the  world  of  that  good  which  was  in  my  power 
to  create;  not,  however,  of  its  potential  good. 
What  I  ought  to  have  done,  others  will  do  after 
me,  and  His  will  shall  be  fulfilled.  This  is  the 
meaning  of  free  will.  But  if  He  knows  every- 
thing that  is  to  be,  if  all  is  ordained  by  Him,  then 
how  can  there  be  free  will?  I  do  not  know. 
This  is  the  boundary  of  thought  and  the  begin- 
ning of  prayer.  Let  Thy  will  be  done,  O  Lord. 
Help  us.  Come  and  dwell  within  us.  Or  more 
simply:  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us!  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  us!  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us,  and 
forgive  us  our  sins!  Words  fail  me,  O  Lord,  but 
Thou  knowest  what  is  in  my  heart,  for  Thou 
dwellest  in  it.  And  so  I  fell  asleep.  I  was  rest- 
less as  usual,  woke  up  several  times,  and  had  bad 
dreams.  I  seemed  to  be  swimming  in  the  sea, 
and  wondering  how  it  was  that  I  lay  so  high  above 
the  water;  why  the  water  did  not  cover  me.  The 
sea  was  a  beautiful  green,  and  some  people  seemed 
to  be  in  my  way. 

I  wanted  to  come  out  of  the  water,  but  could 


2o4  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

not,  because  several  women  were  standing  on  the 
shore  and  I  was  naked.  1  took  the  dream  to 
mean  that  the  power  of  the  flesh  was  strong  within 
me,  standing  in  my  way,  but  deliverance  was  close 
at  hand.  I  got  up  before  dawn,  struck  a  flint,  but 
could  not  light  the  tinder  for  a  long  time,  after 
which,  putting  on  my  dressing-gown  of  elk  skin,  I 
went  out  into  the  fresh  air.  The  rosy  orange  glow 
of  the  rising  sun  could  be  seen  behind  the  snow- 
clad  pines  and  larches.  I  brought  in  the  wood 
which  I  chopped  yesterday,  lit  my  stove,  and  began 
chopping  some  more.  It  grew  lighter.  I  had 
my  breakfast  of  soaked  rusks,  shut  the  damper 
of  the  stove  as  soon  as  the  logs  were  red,  and  sat 
down  to  write. 

I  begin  again.  I  was  born  on  ioth  December 
1777,  and  was  named  Alexander  by  my  grand- 
mother's wish,  in  the  hope,  as  she  afterwards  told 
me,  that  I  should  become  as  great  as  Alexander 
of  Macedonia,  and  as  holy  as  Alexander  Nevsky. 
I  was  christened  a  week  after  my  birth  in  the  big 
church  of  the  palace.  I  was  carried  into  the 
church  by  the  Duchess  of  Courland  on  a  brocade 
pillow,  whilst  a  number  of  other  great  personages 
held  a  cover  over  me.  The  Empress  was  my 
godmother,  the  Emperor  of  Austria  and  the  King 
of  Prussia  were  my  godfathers. 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  205 

My  room  was  arranged  according  to  my  grand- 
mother's taste.  I  can  of  course  remember  noth- 
ing about  it,  but  have  been  told  by  other  people. 
It  was  a  large  room  with  three  high  windows.  A 
space  was  portioned  oft  in  the  middle  by  four 
columns,  with  a  velvety  canopy  overhead  fastened 
to  the  ceiling,  and  silk  curtains  falling  to  the 
ground.  Under  this  canopy  there  was  a  little 
iron  bedstead  with  a  leather  mattress,  a  little  pil- 
low, and  a  light  English  blanket.  The  whole  was 
enclosed  by  a  rail  four  feet  high,  so  that  visitors 
should  not  come  too  close.  There  was  no  furni- 
ture in  the  room  with  the  exception  of  the  nurse's 
bed  behind  the  curtains. 

All  the  details  of  my  physical  training  were 
settled  by  my  grandmother.  I  was  not  allowed 
to  be  rocked,  and  was  swathed  in  a  new  way,  with 
the  feet  left  bare.  I  used  to  be  bathed  first  in 
warm  then  in  cold  water.  My  clothes,  too,  were 
of  a  peculiar  kind;  none  of  my  garments  had  any 
seams  or  fasteners,  and  were  slipped  straight  over 
my  head.  As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  crawl,  I  was 
put  upon  the  carpet  and  left  to  my  own  devices. 
I  was  told  that  in  the  early  days  my  grandmother 
used  frequently  to  sit  down  beside  me  on  the 
carpet  and  play  with  me.  But  I  have  no  recollec- 
tion of  it,  neither  do  I  remember  my  nurse. 

She  was  the  wife  of  a  gardener  at  Tsarskoye 


2o6  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

Selo,  and  was  called  Avdotia  Petrova.  I  saw  her 
again  in  the  garden  at  Tsarskoye  when  I  was 
eighteen  years  old  —  she  came  up  and  told  me 
who  she  was.  It  was  at  the  best  time  of  my  life, 
during  my  first  friendship  with  Chartorisky,  when 
I  was  filled  with  disgust  at  what  went  on  at  the 
two  courts  —  my  poor  unfortunate  father's  and  my 
grandmother's.  She  had  made  me  hate  her  at 
that  time.  I  was  still  a  man  then,  and  not  a  bad 
man,  full  of  good  intentions.  I  was  walking  in  the 
garden  with  Chartorisky,  when  a  neatly-dressed 
woman  came  out  of  one  of  the  side  avenues.  Her 
rosy  face,  wreathed  in  smiles,  was  wonderfully 
kind  and  pleasant.  She  came  up  to  me  excitedly, 
and  falling  down  on  her  knees,  seized  my  hand 
and  began  kissing  it. 

"Who  are  you?"  I  asked. 

"Your  Highness!  Your  Highness!  Heaven 
be  praised  that  I  see  you  again !  " 

"  I  was  your  foster-mother,  Avdotia  Dunyasha. 
I  nursed  you  for  eleven  months.  Thank  the  Lord 
for  this  meeting  with  you  !  " 

I  raised  her  with  difficulty,  asked  where  she 
lived,  and  promised  to  go  and  see  her. 

The  charming  interior  of  her  tiny  cottage,  her 
sweet  daughter,  my  foster-sister,  a  perfect  Russian 
beauty,  who  was  engaged  to  the  court  riding- 
master,  her  husband  the  gardener,  just  as  smiling 
as  his  wife,  and  their  group  of  little  children,  all 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  207 

seemed    to    light    up    the    darkness    surrounding 
me. 

"  This  is  real  life,  real  happiness!  "  I  thought. 
"How  simple  it  all  is,  how  clear!  No  envies, 
intrigues,  quarrels !  " 

This  beloved  Dunyasha  was  my  foster-mother. 
My  head  nurse  was  a  certain  Sophia  Ivanovna 
Benkendorf,  a  German;  my  second  nurse  was  a 
Miss  Hessler,  an  Englishwoman.  Sophia  Ivan- 
ovna Benkendorf  was  a  tall,  stout  woman,  with 
a  pale  complexion  and  straight  nose.  She  had 
a  majestic  bearing  when  in  the  nursery,  but  was 
marvellously  small  and  servile  when  in  the  pres- 
ence of  my  grandmother,  who  was  about  a  head 
shorter  than  herself.  She  was  obsequious  and 
severe  with  me  at  the  same  time.  At  one  moment 
she  was  a  queen  in  her  broad  skirts  and  with  her 
haughty  countenance;  at  another  she  was  a  cring- 
ing, hypocritical  serving-maid.  Praskovia  Ivan- 
ovna Hessler  was  a  long-faced,  red-haired,  serious 
Englishwoman,  but  when  she  smiled,  her  face 
shone  with  radiance,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to 
keep  from  smiling  with  her.  I  liked  her  sense  of 
order,  her  cleanliness,  her  kindness,  and  her  firm- 
ness. She  seemed  to  be  possessed  of  some  mys- 
terious knowledge  of  which  neither  my  mother  nor 
even  grandmother  herself  were  aware. 

I  remember  my  mother  at  that  time  as  some 
supernaturally    beautiful    vision,    mysterious    and 


2o8  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

sad,  gorgeously  dressed  in  silks  and  laces,  and 
glittering  with  diamonds.  She  would  come  into 
my  room  with  her  bare  round  white  arms  and  a 
curiously  aloof  expression  on  her  face  which  I  did 
not  understand.  She  would  caress  me,  take  me  up 
in  those  lovely  arms  of  hers,  raise  me  to  her  still 
more  lovely  face,  and,  shaking  back  her  beautiful 
thick  hair,  would  kiss  me  and  begin  to  cry.  On 
one  occasion  she  let  me  drop  out  of  her  arms  as 
she  fell  to  the  floor  senseless. 

Strange  to  say,  I  had  no  sort  of  love  for  my 
mother.  Whether  it  was  due  to  her  attitude 
towards  me,  or  to  my  grandmother's  influence,  or 
because  I  was  able  by  my  childish  instinct  to  see 
through  all  the  court  intrigues  centring  round  me, 
I  am  unable  to  say.  There  used  to  be  something 
strained  about  her  manner  towards  me.  She  was 
not  really  interested  in  me,  but  seemed  to  be  dis- 
playing me  for  some  end,  and  I  was  conscious  of 
this.      I  was  not  mistaken,  as  I  learnt  later. 

My  grandmother  took  me  away  from  my  par- 
ents and  brought  me  up  entirely  herself.  She  in- 
tended placing  me  on  the  throne  instead  of  my 
poor  unfortunate  father,  her  son,  whom  she  hated. 
Needless  to  say,  I  knew  nothing  of  this  at  the  time, 
but  as  soon  as  I  began  to  notice  things  I  felt  my- 
self to  be  an  object  of  enmity  and  rivalry,  the  play- 
thing of  conspirators,  without  knowing  the   why 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  209 

or  wherefore.  I  was  conscious  of  every  one's 
utter  indifference  to  me  —  to  my  childish  heart, 
that  had  no  need  of  a  crown  but  rather  of  love, 
of  which  I  knew  nothing.  There  was  my  mother, 
who  was  always  depressed  when  she  saw  me.  On 
one  occasion  she  was  talking  to  Sophia  Ivanovna 
in  German,  when  she  heard  my  grandmother  com- 
ing; she  suddenly  burst  into  tears  and  ran  out  of 
the  room.  There  was  my  father,  who  sometimes 
came  to  see  us  and  whom  we  sometimes  went  to 
see.  This  poor  unfortunate  father  of  mine 
showed  even  greater  displeasure  on  seeing  me  than 
my  mother.  His  whole  bearing  towards  me  was 
one  of  restrained  anger.  I  remember  on  one 
occasion  how  we  were  taken  to  their  apartments 
before  they  set  out  for  their  travels  abroad  in 
178 1.  I  happened  to  be  standing  next  to  him, 
when  he  suddenly  thrust  me  away,  jumped  up 
from  his  chair  with  flashing  eyes,  and  gasped  out 
something  concerning  me  and  my  grandmother. 
I  cannot  recall  all  that  he  said,  but  the  .Words 
apres  62  tout  est  possible  have  remained  in  my 
memory.  I  remember  how  I  got  frightened  and 
burst  into  tears.  My  mother  took  me  up  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  me,  then  carried  me  over  to  him. 
He  gave  me  his  blessing  hurriedly  and  rushed 
out  of  the  room,  his  high  heels  clattering  as  he 
went. 


210  FEDOR  KUSM1CH 

It  was  not  until  long  after  that  I  understood 
the  meaning  of  this  outburst.  They  set  out  for 
their  travels  under  the  name  of  Comle  el  Comtesse 
du  Nord.  It  was  my  grandmother's  idea  that 
they  should  go.  My  father  was  afraid  that  m  lis 
absence  he  would  be  deprived  of  the  right  :c  ne 
throne  and  that  I  should  be  acknowledged  as  us 
successor.  Good  God!  he  prized  that  which 
ruined  us  both  —  ruined  us  bodily  and  spiritually, 
and  I,  unfortunate  man,  prized  it  no  less  than  hel 

I  hear  some  one  knocking  at  the  door  and 
chanting  a  prayer  in  the  name  of  Father  and  Son. 
Amen.  I  must  put  away  my  papers  and  go  and 
see  who  it  is.  With  God's  grace  I  will  continue 
to-morrow. 


Ill 


December    13. 

JLast  night  I  slept  very  little  and  had  bad  dreams. 
I  thought  that  an  unpleasant,  sickly-looking  woman 
was  pressing  herself  close  against  me  and  I  was  not 
afraid  of  her,  nor  of  the  sin,  but  afraid  that  my 
wife  should  see  us.  I  did  not  want  to  hear  her 
reproaches  again.  I  am  seventy-two  years  old 
and  am  not  yet  free.  In  a  waking  state  it  is  pos- 
sible to  deceive  yourself,  but  in  dreams  you  get  a 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  211 

true  estimate  of  the  plane  that  you  have  reached. 
I  had  a  second  dream  which  gave  me  another 
proof  of  my  low  moral  condition.  I  thought  that 
some  one  had  brought  me  some  sweets  wrapped 
up  in  green  moss.  We  unpacked  them  and  divided 
them  between  us,  leaving  a  few  over.  I  still  went 
on  selecting  some  for  myself,  when  suddenly  I 
caught  sight  of  an  unpleasant-looking,  dark-col- 
oured boy,  a  son  of  the  Sultan,  stretching  his  arm 
towards  me  and  trying  to  clutch  them.  I  pushed 
him  away  rudely,  though  I  knew  quite  well  that  it 
was  far  more  natural  for  a  child  to  eat  sweets 
than  for  me,  but  I  was  angry  with  him  and  would 
not  give  him  any  and  was  conscious  at  the  same 
time  that  it  was  mean. 

A  similar  thing  happened  to  me  when  I  was 
awake.  I  had  a  visit  from  Maria  Martemen- 
ovna;  a  messenger  called  yesterday  to  ask  if  she 
might  come.  I  did  not  like  to  hurt  her  feelings, 
so  I  consented,  but  I  find  these  visits  extremely 
trying.  She  came  to-day.  I  could  hear  the  sound 
of  her  sledge  over  the  crisp  snow  when  she  was 
still  some  way  off.  She  arrived  in  her  fur  coat 
and  shawls,  laden  with  packages  she  had  brought 
for  me,  letting  in  so  much  cold  that  I  was  obliged 
to  put  on  my  dressing-gown.  She  had  brought  me 
pancakes,  lenten  oil,  and  apples.  She  had  come 
to  consult  me  about  her  daughter,  whom  a  rich 


212  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

widower  wished  to  marry,  and  wanted  to  know  if 
she  was  to  give  her  consent.  Their  tremendous 
opinion  of  my  wisdom  is  extremely  annoying  to 
me.  All  my  protestations  to  the  contrary  they 
invariably  put  down  to  my  humility.  I  repeated 
to  her  what  I  had  said  many  times  before,  that 
chastity  is  higher  than  marriage,  but  that  the  Apos- 
tle Paul  says  it  is  better  to  marry  than  be  the 
slave  of  passion. 

Her  brother-in-law  Nikanor  Ivanov  was  with 
her.  He  had  once  asked  me  to  settle  in  his  house, 
and  has  never  since  ceased  worrying  me  with  his 
visits.  Nikanor  Ivanov  is  a  great  trial  to  me.  I 
can  never  overcome  my  aversion  of  him.  Help 
me,  O  Lord,  to  see  my  own  sins  that  I  may  not 
judge  my  brother.  All  his  shortcomings  are 
known  to  me.  I  see  through  them  with  a  ma- 
licious shrewdness.  I  am  conscious  of  his  weak- 
nesses and  cannot  conquer  my  dislike  of  him  — 
and  he  is  my  brother,  with  the  same  divine  element 
in  him  that  is  in  me.  What  do  these  aversions 
mean!  It  is  not  my  first  experience  of  them. 
The  two  strongest  antipathies  I  ever  felt  in  my 
life  were  against  Louis  XYIII.,  with  his  corpulent 
body,  hook  nose,  irritating  white  hands;  his  con- 
ceit, insolence,  and  utter  stupidity  .  .  .  (there! 
I  cannot  keep  from  abusing  him).  The  other 
was  against  Nikanor  Ivanov,  who  tormented  me 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  213 

for  two  whole  hours  yesterday.  Everything  about 
him,  from  his  voice,  his  hair,  to  his  very  nails  was 
repulsive  to  me.  I  pretended  to  be  unwell  in  or- 
der to  account  for  my  depression  to  Maria  Marte- 
menovna.  After  they  had  gone  I  said  my  prayers 
and  grew  calmer.  I  thank  Thee,  O  Lord,  for  the 
power  Thou  hast  granted  me  over  the  only  thing 
that  is  necessary  to  me.  I  tried  to  remember  that 
Nikanor  Ivanov  was  once  an  innocent  child  and 
that  he  will  come  to  die  like  the  rest  of  us.  I 
tried  to  think  kindly  of  Louis  XVIII.,  who  was 
dead.  I  felt  sorry  that  Nikanor  Ivanov  was  not 
there  that  I  might  show  him  how  kindly  disposed 
I  felt  towards  him. 

Maria  Martemenovna  brought  me  a  quantity 
of  candles  so  that  I  shall  be  able  to  write  at  night. 

I  have  just  been  out.  To  the  left  the  stars  had 
already  merged  into  the  glorious  light  of  the  au- 
rora borealis.  How  beautiful!  How  beautiful! 
I  must  continue. 

My  father  and  mother  started  on  their  travels 
abroad  and  my  brother  Constantine  and  I  were 
left  in  the  entire  charge  of  our  grandmother.  My 
brother,  who  was  born  two  years  later  than  I, 
had  been  christened  Constantine  in  the  hope  that 
he  would  one  day  become  the  Emperor  of  Con- 
stantinople. 


2i4  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

Children  readily  grow  fond  of  people,  especially 
of  those  who  are  kind  to  them.  My  grandmother 
was  very  nice  to  me,  made  much  of  me,  and  I 
loved  her  in  spite  of  an  extremely  repellant  odour 
that  always  seemed  to  hang  about  her.  The  strin- 
gent scents  could  not  disguise  this  odour  —  I  used 
to  notice  it  particularly  when  I  sat  upon  her  knee. 
I  was  still  more  repelled  by  her  clean  yellowish 
hands  covered  with  wrinkles,  so  shiny  and  slip- 
pery, the  fingers  bending  over,  and  the  nails  un- 
naturally long.  Her  languid,  lustreless  eyes,  that 
seemed  almost  dead,  and  the  smile  playing  about 
her  toothless  mouth,  produced  an  oppressive 
though  not  altogether  unpleasant  effect  on  those 
who  saw  her.  I  believed  at  that  time  that  the 
languid  expression  of  her  eyes  was  due  to  the  enor- 
mous pains  she  took  over  her  toilet.  At  any  rate 
I  was  told  so.  I  felt  sorry  for  her  then,  but  now 
I  think  of  it  with  disgust. 

I  had  seen  Potemkin .  once  or  twice.  This 
huge,  greasy,  one-eyed  monster  was  terrible. 

The  thing  that  awed  me  most  about  him,  though 
he  used  to  play  with  me  and  call  me  your  High- 
ness, was  the  fact  that  he  never  seemed  afraid  of 
my  grandmother,  like  other  people,  but  would 
speak  boldly  in  her  presence  in  his  gruff,  bellow- 
ing voice. 

Another  man   whom   I   frequently  saw  in  her 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  215 

company  was  Lanskoy.  He  was  nearly  always 
with  her.  The  whole  Court  hovered  about  him 
and  made  much  of  him.  Needless  to  say  I  did 
not  understand  who  Lanskoy  was  at  the  time,  and 
liked  him.  I  was  attracted  by  his  curly  hair,  his 
shapely  legs  in  tight  elk-skin  breeches,  his  happy, 
light-hearted  smile,  his  diamonds  and  jewels,  glit- 
tering all  over  him. 

It  was  a  time  full  of  gaieties.  We  were  taken 
to  Tsarskoye  Selo,  we  rowed  on  the  river,  we 
busied  ourselves  in  the  garden,  we  went  out  walk- 
ing and  riding.  Constantine,  a  chubby,  red- 
haired  little  boy,  un  petit  Bacchus  as  grandmother 
used  to  call  him,  kept  us  amused  with  his  lively 
fun.  He  used  to  mimic  everybody,  including 
Sophia  Ivanovna  and  even  grandmother  herself. 
One  event  of  that  time  impressed  itself  on  my 
memory.  This  was  the  death  of  Sophia  Ivanovna 
Benkendorf.  She  died  one  evening  at  Tsarskoye 
in  grandmother's  presence.  Sophia  Ivanovna  had 
just  brought  us  in  to  her  and  was  talking  and  smil- 
ing, and  suddenly  her  face  changed,  she  reeled, 
leaned  up  against  the  door  for  support,  and  fell 
down  senseless.  People  came  running  in  and  we 
were  taken  away.  The  next  day  we  heard  that 
she  was  dead.  I  cried  very  much,  felt  very  mis- 
erable, and  would  not  be  comforted.  They  all 
thought  that  I  was  grieved  about  Sophia  Ivanovna, 


2i6  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

but  that  was  not  true.  I  cried  at  the  thought 
that  people  should  have  to  die;  that  there  should 
be  such  a  thing  as  death  in  the  world.  I  could 
not  comprehend,  could  not  believe,  that  it  was 
the  inevitable  fate  of  all  men.  I  remember  how, 
in  my  five-year-old  soul,  there  rose  up  questions 
about  the  meaning  of  death  and  the  meaning  of 
life  that  ends  in  death.  Those  vital  questions 
confronting  all  men,  to  which  the  wise  have  tried 
to  seek  an  answer  in  vain,  and  the  foolish  have 
tried  to  ignore  and  forget.  As  is  natural  to  a 
child,  particularly  one  in  my  position,  I  dismissed 
the  terrifying  idea  of  death  from  my  mind;  for- 
got about  it  as  if  it  did  not  exist. 

Another  important  event  of  that  time  which 
came  as  a  consequence  of  Sophia  Ivanovna's  death, 
was  that  we  passed  over  into  the  charge  of  a  tutor. 
He  was  Nicolai  Ivanovich  Saltikov  —  not  the 
Saltikov  who,  in  all  probability,  was  our  grand- 
father, but  Nicolai  Ivanovich,  who  had  been  at- 
tached to  my  father's  Court.  He  was  a  little 
man,  with  an  enormous  head  and  a  stupid-looking 
countenance,  on  which  there  was  a  constant  grim- 
ace. Constantine  used  to  imitate  it  beautifully. 
This  change  necessitated  parting  with  my  dear 
Praskovia  Ivanovna,  my  old  nurse. 

Those  who  have  not  had  the  misfortune  of  be- 
ing born  in  a  royal  house  can  hardly  imagine  the 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  217 

distorted  view  we  have  of  people,  nor  our  false 
attitude  towards  them.  Instead  of  being  instilled 
with  a  sense  of  dependence  on  our  elders  natural 
to  children,  or  with  a  sense  of  gratitude  for  all  the 
good  we  enjoyed,  we  were  made  to  believe  that 
we  were  some  kind  of  superior  beings  whose  every 
wish  must  be  gratified.  Beings  who,  by  a  single 
word  or  smile,  not  only  paid  for  all  the  kindness 
showered  upon  them,  but  were  even  conferring 
some  sort  of  favour,  making  others  happy. 

It  is  true  that  politeness  was  expected  of  us; 
but  by  a  peculiar  childish  instinct,  I  soon  saw  that 
we  were  not  meant  to  be  polite  for  the  benefit  of 
others,  but  merely  so  as  to  enhance  our  own 
grandeur. 

I  remember  one  festive  day.  My  brother, 
Saltikov  and  I  were  driving  along  the  Nevsky. 
We  sat  on  the  front  seat,  with  two  powdered  foot- 
men in  red  livery  standing  behind.  It  was  a 
beautiful  day.  Constantine  and  I  were  dressed 
in  uniforms,  unbuttoned  in  front,  exposing  our 
white  waistcoats,  on  which  lay  the  order  of  St. 
Andrew.  We  wore  hats  with  feathers,  which  we 
kept  raising  all  the  time  to  people  greeting  us. 
The  crowd  stared  and  cheered,  and  ran  after  us  — 
"  On  vous  salue."  Nicolai  Ivanovich  kept  on  say- 
ing, "  A  droite."  As  we  passed  the  guardhouse 
the  sentinels  came  running  out  to  have  a  look  at  us. 


2i8  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

I  always  liked  to  sec  them.  From  my  earliest 
childhood  I  had  a  passion  for  soldiers  and  military 
manoeuvres. 

It  was  always  instilled  into  us,  particularly  by 
our  grandmother,  who  believed  it  least  of  all,  that 
we  must  always  bear  in  mind  that  all  men  are 
equal.  But  I  knew  somehow  that  those  who 
talked  about  equality  did  not  believe  in  it. 

Once  when  I  was  playing  with  Sasha  Galitsin, 
he  pushed  me  accidentally,  and  hurt  me. 

"  How  dare  you  !  "  I  cried. 

"  I  didn't  mean  it.     It's  all  right!  " 

I  was  so  outraged  that  my  blood  rushed  to  my 
heart.  I  complained  to  Nicolai  Ivanovich,  and 
was  not  ashamed  when  Galitsin  was  made  to  apol- 
ogise. 

Enough  for  to-day.  My  candle  is  nearly  out, 
and  I  must  break  up  some  fagots.  My  axe  is 
blunt,  and  I  have  nothing  to  sharpen  it  on.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  know  how  to  do  it. 


IV 


December  17. 

I  have  not  written  anything  for  the  last  three 
days,  because  I  have  not  been  very  well.  I  tried 
to  read  the  Testament,  but  could  not  bring  myself 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  219 

to  that  understanding  of  it,  that  communion  with 
God  that  I  formerly  experienced.  I  used  to  think 
at  one  time  that  it  was  impossible  for  man  to  live 
without  desire.  I  was  always  in  a  state  of  desire 
for  something  or  other,  and  am  not  free  from  it 
now.  At  one  time  I  desired  to  conquer  Napoleon ; 
[  desired  to  be  Europe's  peacemaker;  I  desired 
to  free  myself  of  my  crown;  but  all  these  desires, 
whether  fulfilled,  or  unfulfilled,  soon  ceased  to 
attract  me,  and  gave  place  to  new  ones.  So  it 
went  on  without  end.  Recently  I  longed  for  win- 
ter to  come  —  winter  has  come.  I  longed  for  sol- 
itude, and  have  almost  attained  it.  Now  I  want 
to  write  the  story  of  my  life  so  that  it  may  be  a 
warning  to  others,  but  whether  I  accomplish  it  or 
not,  new  desires  will  spring  up  just  the  same.  If 
life  is  nothing  more  than  the  begetting  of  desire, 
and  happiness  the  fulfilment  of  desire,  then  is 
there  not  some  sort  of  desire  fundamental  to  every 
man  that  would  always  be  fulfilled,  or  that  would 
be  possible  of  fulfilment?  It  became  clear  to  me 
that  such  a  desire  must  be  death.  The  whole  of 
life  would  then  become  a  preparation  for  the  ful- 
filment of  this  desire,  and  would  inevitably  be 
fulfilled. 

The  idea  seemed  strange  to  me  at  first,  but 
meditating  on  it  further,  I  was  convinced  that  the 
only  thing  a  wise  man  could  wish  for  was  death. 


220  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

Not  death  for  its  own  sake,  but  for  that  stream  of 
life  leading  from  it.  It  would  free  the  spiritual 
nature  inherent  in  every  man  from  all  passions 
and  temptations.  I  see  this  now,  having  been 
freed  from  the  worst  of  that  darkness  that  ob- 
scured my  own  soul  from  me,  not  letting  me  see 
its  oneness  with  God  —  nay,  that  obscured  God 
Himself.     The  idea  came  to  me  unconsciously. 

If  I  really  believed  that  my  highest  good  was  to 
be  delivered  from  passion  and  to  be  united  with 
God,  then  I  ought  to  welcome  everything  that 
brought  me  nearer  death,  such  as  old  age  and 
sickness.  It  would  in  a  sense  be  a  fulfilment  of 
my  one  and  only  desire.  I  see  this  clearly  when 
I  am  well,  but  when  I  am  ill,  as  I  have  been  for 
the  last  two  days,  I  cannot  see  it  in  the  same  light, 
and  though  I  do  not  rebel  against  death,  yet  do 
not  long  for  its  approach.  This  is  a  condition  of 
spiritual  inertia.      I  must  be  patient. 

I  will  go  on  from  where  I  left  off  yesterday. 

Most  of  the  things  I  have  related  about  my 
childhood  I  have  heard  from  others.  Frequently 
the  things  that  have  been  told  me  and  my  own 
impressions  get  mixed  up  one  with  another,  so  that 
I  am  sometimes  unable  to  distinguish  between  the 
two. 

The  whole  of  my  life  from  the  very  moment  of 
my  birth  until  my  present  old  age,  makes  me  think 
of  a  plain  enveloped  in  a  thick  fog.     Everything 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  221 

is  hidden  from  view,  when  all  at  once  the  mist 
lifts  itself  in  places,  disclosing  tiny  little  islands 
des  eclaircies  on  which  people  and  objects  can  be 
distinguished,  quite  disconnected  with  one  another, 
surrounded  by  an  impenetrable  veil  of  mist. 

In  my  childhood  these  eclaircies  appeared  very 
rarely  in  the  interminable  sea  of  fog  and  smoke 
surrounding  me.  As  I  grew  older  I  could  see 
them  more  often,  but  even  now  there  are  periods 
of  my  life  that  have  left  no  trace  on  my  memory. 
I  have  already  given  some  of  the  events  of  my 
early  childhood  that  have  most  impressed  them- 
selves on  my  mind,  the  death  of  Sophia  Benken- 
dorf,  the  parting  scene  with  my  parents,  my  lively 
brother  Constantine,  and  there  are  other  reminis- 
cences that  come  crowding  back  as  I  think  of  the 
past.  But,  for  instance,  I  have  no  recollection  of 
when  Constantine  first  appeared,  nor  when  we 
came  to  live  together,  but  I  do  remember  one 
Christmas  Eve  when  he  was  five  and  I  was  seven 
years  old.  It  was  after  the  midnight  service  when 
they  put  us  to  bed.  We  both  got  together  as  soon 
as  we  were  left  alone.  Constantine,  with  nothing 
on  but  a  nightshirt,  climbed  into  my  bed,  and  we 
began  a  lively  game  which  consisted  in  slapping 
each  other  on  our  naked  bodies.  We  laughed  un- 
til our  sides  ached,  and  were  feeling  ever  so  happy, 
when  suddenly  Nicolai  Ivanovich  came  into  the 


222  FEDOR  KUSMICH 

room  with  his  enormous  powdered  head,  and  in 
an  embroidered  coat.  He  was  horror-stricken 
on  catching  sight  of  us,  and  flew  at  us  in  a  perfect 
state  of  terror  that  I  have  never  been  able  to 
fathom.  He  put  Constantine  back  in  his  own 
bed,  threatened  to  punish  us  and  to  tell  our  grand- 
mother. 

Another  thing  that  impressed  itself  on  my  mem- 
ory occurred  somewhat  later,  when  I  was  about 
nine.  It  was  the  quarrel  between  Alexei  Gregori- 
evich  Orlov  and  Potenkin,  which  took  place  in  my 
grandmother's  room  in  our  presence.  It  happened 
a  short  time  before  our  departure  for  the  Crimea 
and  our  first  visit  to  Moscow.  Nicolai  Ivanovich 
had  taken  us  to  see  grandmother  as  usual.  The 
large  room  with  a  carved  and  painted  ceiling  was 
full  of  people.  My  grandmother  was  sitting  be- 
fore a  golden  dressing-table,  in  a  white  dressing- 
jacket,  surrounded  by  her  maids,  who  were  put- 
ting the  finishing  touches  to  her  hair.  It  was 
tastefully  dressed  on  the  top  of  her  head.  She 
smiled  on  seeing  us,  and  went  on  talking  to  a  gen- 
eral decorated  with  the  order  of  St.  Andrew.  He 
was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  man,  with  a  terrible 
scar  across  his  cheek  from  the  mouth  to  the  ear. 
It  was  Orlov,  le  Balafre.  I  had  never  seen  him 
before. 
My  favourite  little  dog^Michot,  sprang  from 


FEDOR  KUSMICH  223 

the  foot  of  grandmother's  dress,  and  began  paw- 
ing me  and  licking  my  face.  We  came  up  to 
grandmother  and  kissed  her  plump  yellow  hand. 
She  put  it  under  my  chin,  and  began  to  caress  me 
with  her  bent  fingers.  In  spite  of  her  perfumes,  I 
felt  that  unpleasant  odour  about  her.  She  con- 
tinued talking  to  the  Balafre.  "  Is  he  not  a  fine 
fellow?  "  she  said,  pointing  to  me.  "  You  haven't 
seen  him  before,  have  you,  Count?  " 

"  They  are  both  fine  fellows,"  the  Count  replied, 
kissing  our  hands  in  turn. 

"All  right,  all  right!"  she  said  to  the  maid, 
who  was  arranging  a  cap  on  her  head.  It  was 
dear  Marie  Stepanovna,  powdered  and  painted, 
who  was  always  kind  to  me. 

Lanskoy  came  up  with  an  open  snuff-box. 
Grandmother  took  some  snuff,  and  smiled  as  she 
caught  sight  of  Matriona  Denisovna,  her  jester, 
who  was  just  coming  in 

(Here  the  papers  break  off.) 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC. 

This  morning  I  underwent  a  medical  examina- 
tion in  the  government  council  room.  The  opin- 
ions of  the  doctors  were  divided.  They  argued 
among  themselves  and  came  at  last  to  the  con- 
clusion that  I  was  not  mad.  But  this  was  due  to 
the  fact  that  I  tried  hard  during  the  examination 
not  to  give  myself  away.  I  was  afraid  of  being 
sent  to  the  lunatic  asylum,  where  I  would  not  be 
able  to  go  on  with  the  mad  undertaking  I  have  on 
my  hands.  They  pronounced  me  subject  to  fits  of 
excitement,  and  something  else,  too,  but  never- 
theless of  sound  mind.  The  doctor  prescribed  a 
certain  treatment,  and  assured  me  that  by  follow- 
ing his  directions  my  trouble  would  completely 
disappear.  Imagine,  all  that  torments  me  dis- 
appearing completely!  Oh,  there  is  nothing  I 
would  not  give  to  be  free  from  my  trouble.  The 
suffering  is  too  great! 

I  am  going  to  tell  explicitly  how  I  came  to  un- 
dergo that  examination;  how  I  went  mad,  and 
how  my  madness  was  revealed  to  the  outside 
world. 

227 


228        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

Up  to  the  age  of  thirty-five  I  lived  like  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  nobody  had  noticed  any 
peculiarities  in  me.  Only  in  my  early  childhood, 
before  I  was  ten,  I  had  occasionally  been  in  a  men- 
tal state  similar  to  the  present  one,  and  then  only 
at  intervals,  whereas  now  I  am  continually  con- 
scious of  it. 

I  remember  going  to  bed  one  evening,  when  I 
was  a  child  of  five  or  six.  Nurse  Euprasia,  a  tall, 
lean  woman  in  a  brown  dress,  with  a  double  chin, 
was  undressing  me,  and  was  just  lifting  me  up  to 
put  me  into  bed. 

"  I  will  get  into  bed  myself,"  I  said,  preparing 
to  step  over  the  net  at  the  bedside. 

"  Lie  down,  Fedinka.  You  see,  Mitinka  is  al- 
ready lying  quite  still,"  she  said,  pointing  with 
her  head  to  my  brother  in  his  bed. 

I  jumped  into  my  bed  still  holding  nurse's  hand 
in  mine.  Then  I  let  it  go,  stretched  my  legs  under 
the  blanket  and  wrapped  myself  up.  1  felt  so  nice 
and  warm!  I  grew  silent  all  of  a  sudden  and 
began  thinking:  "I  love  nurse,  nurse  loves  me 
and  Mitinka,  I  love  Mitinka  too,  and  he  loves  me 
and  nurse.  And  nurse  loves  Taras;  I  love  Taras 
too,  and  so  does  Mitinka.  And  Taras  loves  me 
and  nurse.  And  mother  loves  me  and  nurse; 
nurse  loves  mother  and  me  and  father;  everybody 
loves  everybody,  and  everybody  is  happy." 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        229 

Suddenly  the  housekeeper  rushed  in  and  began 
to  shout  in  an  angry  voice  something  about  a  sugar 
basin  she  could  not  find.  Nurse  got  cross  and 
said  she  did  not  take  it.  I  felt  frightened;  it  was 
all  so  strange.  A  cold  horror  came  over  me,  and 
I  hid  myself  under  the  blanket.  But  I  felt  no 
better  in  the  darkness  under  the  blanket.  I 
thought  of  a  boy  who  had  got  a  thrashing  one  day 
in  my  presence  —  of  his  screams,  and  of  the  cruel 
face  of  Foka  when  he  was  beating  the  boy. 

"  Then  you  won't  do  it  any  more;  you  won't!  " 
he  repeated  and  went  on  beating. 

"I  won't,"  said  the  boy;  and  Foka  kept  on 
repeating  over  and  over,  "  You  won't,  you 
won't!  "  and  did  not  cease  to  strike  the  boy. 

That  was  when  my  madness  came  over  me  for 
the  first  time.  I  burst  into  sobs,  and  they  could 
not  quiet  me  for  a  long  while.  The  tears  and 
despair  of  that  day  were  the  first  signs  of  my 
present  trouble. 

I  well  remember  the  second  time  my  madness 
seized  me.  It  was  when  aunt  was  telling  us  about 
Christ.  She  told  His  story  and  got  up  to  leave 
the  room.  But  we  held  her  back:  "Tell  us 
more  about  Jesus  Christ!  "  we  said. 

."  I  must  go,"  she  replied. 

"  No,  tell  us  more,  please!  "  Mitinka  insisted, 
and  she  repeated  all  she  had  said  before.     She 


23o        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

told  us  how  they  crucified  Him,  how  they  beat  and 
martyred  Him,  and  how  He  went  on  praying  and 
did  not  blame  them. 

"  Auntie,  why  did  they  torture  Him?  " 

"  They  were  wicked." 

"But  wasn't  He  God?" 

"  Be  still  —  it  is  nine  o'clock,  don't  you  hear 
the  clock  striking?  " 

"Why  did  they  beat  Him?  He  had  forgiven 
them.  Then  why  did  they  hit  Him?  Did  it 
hurt  Him?     Auntie,  did  it  hurt?  " 

"  Be  quiet,  I  say.  I  am  going  to  the  dining- 
room  to  have  tea  now." 

"  But  perhaps  it  never  happened,  perhaps  He 
was  not  beaten  by  them?  " 

"  I  am  going." 

"  No,  Auntie,  don't  go !  .  .  ."  And  again  my 
madness  took  possession  of  me.  I  sobbed  and 
sobbed,  and  began  knocking  my  head  against  the 
wall. 

Such  had  been  the  fits  of  madness  in  my  child- 
hood. But  after  I  was  fourteen,  from  the  time 
the  instincts  of  sex  awoke  and  I  began  to  give  way 
to  vice,  my  madness  seemed  to  have  passed,  and 
I  was  a  boy  like  other  boys.  Just  as  happens 
with  all  of  us  who  are  brought  up  on  rich,  over- 
abundant food,  and  are  spoiled  and  made  effemi- 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        231 

nate,  because  we  never  do  any  physical  work,  and 
are  surrounded  by  all  possible  temptations,  which 
excite  our  sensual  nature  when  in  the  company  of 
other  children  similarly  spoiled,  so  I  had  been 
taught  vice  by  other  boys  of  my  age  and  I  in- 
dulged in  it.  As  time  passed  other  vices  came  to 
take  the  place  of  the  first.  I  began  to  know 
women,  and  so  I  went  on  living,  up  to  the  time  I 
was  thirty-five,  looking  out  for  all  kinds  of  pleas- 
ures and  enjoying  them.  I  had  a  perfectly  sound 
mind  then,  and  never  a  sign  of  madness.  Those 
twenty  years  of  my  normal  life  passed  without 
leaving  any  special  record  on  my  memory,  and  now 
it  is  only  with  a  great  effort  of  mind  and  with  utter 
disgust,  that  I  can  concentrate  my  thoughts 
upon  that  time. 

Like  all  the  boys  of  my  set,  who  were  of  sound 
mind,  I  entered  school,  passed  on  to  the  university 
and  went  through  a  course  of  law  studies.  Then 
I  entered  the  State  service  for  a  short  time,  mar- 
ried, and  settled  down  in  the  cou.itry,  educating  — 
if  our  way  of  bringing  up  children  can  be  called 
educating  —  my  children,  looking  after  the  land, 
and  filling  the  post  of  a  Justice  of  the  Peace. 

It  was  when  I  had  been  married  ten  years  that 
one  of  those  attacks  of  madness  I  suffered  from  in 
my  childhood  made  its  appearance  again.  My 
wife  and  I  had  saved  up  money  from  her  inherit- 


232        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

ance  and  from  some  Government  bonds*  of  mine 
which  I  had  sold,  and  we  decided  that  with  that 
money  we  would  buy  another  estate.  I  was  natu- 
rally keen  to  increase  our  fortune,  and  to  do  it 
in  the  shrewdest  way,  better  than  any  one  else 
would  manage  it.  I  went  about  inquiring  what 
estates  were  to  be  sold,  and  used  to  read  all  the 
advertisements  in  the  papers.  What  I  wanted  was 
to  buy  an  estate,  the  produce  or  timber  of  which 
would  cover  the  cost  of  purchase,  and  then  I  would 
have  the  estate  practically  for  nothing.  I  was 
looking  out  for  a  fool  who  did  not  understand 
business,  and  there  came  a  day  when  I  thought  I 
had  found  one.  An  estate  with  large  forests  at- 
tached to  it  was  to  be  sold  in  the  Pensa  Govern- 
ment. To  judge  by  the  information  I  had  re- 
ceived the  proprietor  of  that  estate  was  exactly 
the  imbecile  I  wanted,  and  I  might  expect  the  for- 
ests to  cover  the  price  asked  for  the  whole  estate. 
I  got  my  things  ready  and  was  soon  on  my  way 
to  the  estate  I  wished  to  inspect. 

We  had  first  to  go  by  train    (I  had  taken  my 
man-servant  with  me),  then  by  coach,  with  relays 

*  These  government  bonds  were  of  a  peculiar  kind:  At  the 
moment  of  the  abolition  of  serfdom,  the  Russian  Government 
handed  to  the  owners  of  serfs  State  bonds  instead  of  money, 
called  in  Russia  "  the  redemption  bonds."  The  money  due  by 
the  Government  on  those  papers  were  paid  off  at  fixed  periods  — 
and  the  owners  of  those  bonds  sold  them  often  like  ordinary 
Government   papers. 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        233 

of  horses  at  the  various  stations.  The  journey- 
was  very  pleasant,  and  my  servant,  a  good-natured 
youth,  liked  it  as  much  as  I  did.  We  enjoyed  the 
new  surroundings  and  the  new  people,  and  having 
now  only  about  two  hundred  miles  more  to  drive, 
we  decided  to  go  on  without  stopping,  except  to 
change  horses  at  the  stations.  Night  came  on 
and  we  were  still  driving.  I  had  been  dozing,  but 
presently  I  awoke,  seized  with  a  sudden  fear. 
As  often  happens  in  such  a  case,  I  was  so  excited 
that  I  was  thoroughly  awake  and  it  seemed  as  if 
sleep  were  gone  for  ever.  "  Why  am  I  driving? 
Where  am  I  going?"  I  suddenly  asked  myself. 
It  was  not  that  I  disliked  the  idea  of  buying  an 
estate  at  a  bargain,  but  it  seemed  at  that  moment 
so  senseless  to  journey  to  such  a  far  away  place, 
and  I  had  a  feeling  as  if  I  were  going  to  die  there, 
away  from  home.      I  was  overcome  with  horror. 

My  servant  Sergius  awoke,  and  I  took  advan- 
tage of  the  fact  to  talk  to  him.  I  began  to  remark 
upon  the  scenery  around  us;  he  had  also  a  good 
deal  to  say,  of  the  people  at  home,  of  the  pleasure 
of  the  journey,  and  it  seemed  strange  to  me  that 
he  could  talk  so  gaily.  He  appeared  so  pleased 
with  everything  and  in  such  good  spirits,  whereas 
I  was  annoyed  with  it  all.  Still,  I  felt  more  at 
ease  when  I  was  talking  with  him.  Along  with 
my  feelings  of  restlessness  and  my  secret  horror, 


234        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

however,  I  was  fatigued  as  well,  and  longed  to 
break  the  journey  somewhere.  It  seemed  to  me 
my  uneasiness  would  cease  if  I  could  only  enter  a 
room,  have  tea,  and,  what  I  desired  most  of  alt, 
sleep. 

We  were  approaching  the  town  Arzamas. 

"  Don't  you  think  we  had  better  stop  here  and 
have  a  rest?  " 

"  Why  not?      It's  an  excellent  idea." 

"  How  far  are  we  from  the  town?  "  I  asked  the 
driver. 

"Another  seven  miles." 

The  driver  was  a  quiet,  silent  man.  He  was 
driving  rather  slowly  and  wearily. 

We  drove  on.  I  was  silent,  but  I  felt  better, 
looking  forward  to  a  rest  and  hoping  to  feel  the 
better  for  it.  We  drove  on  and  on  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  the  seven  miles  seemed  to  have  no  end. 
At  last  we  reached  the  town.  It  was  sound  asleep 
at  that  early  hour.  First  came  the  small  houses, 
piercing  the  darkness,  and  as  we  passed  them,  the 
noise  of  our  jingling  bells  and  the  trotting  of  our 
horses  sounded  louder.  In  a  few  places  the 
houses  were  large  and  white,  but  I  did  not  feel 
less  dejected  for  seeing  them.  I  was  waiting  for 
the  station,  and  the  samovar,  and  longed  to  lie 
down  and  rest. 

At  last  we  approached  a  house  with  pillars  in 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        235 

front  of  it.  The  house  was  white,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  very  melancholy.  I  felt  even  frightened  at 
its  aspect  and  stepped  slowly  out  of  the  carriage. 
Sergius  was  busying  himself  with  our  luggage, 
taking  what  we  needed  for  the  night,  running 
about  and  stepping  heavily  on  the  doorsteps.  The 
sound  of  his  brisk  tread  increased  my  weariness. 
I  walked  in  and  came  into  a  small  passage.  A 
man  received  us;  he  had  a  large  spot  on  his  cheek 
and  that  spot  filled  me  with  horror.  He  asked  us 
into  a  room  which  was  just  an  ordinary  room. 
My  uneasiness  was  growing. 

"  Could  we  have  a  room  to  rest  in?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  a  very  nice  bedroom  at  your 
disposal.     A  square  room,  newly  whitewashed." 

The  fact  of  the  little  room  being  square  was  — 
I  remember  it  so  well  —  most  painful  to  me.  It 
had  one  window  with  a  red  curtain,  a  table  of 
birchwood  and  a  sofa  with  a  curved  back  and 
arms.  Sergius  boiled  the  water  in  the  samovar 
and  made  the  tea.  I  put  a  pillow  on  the  sofa  in 
the  meantime  and  lay  down.  I  was  not  asleep;  I 
heard  Sergius  busy  with  the  samovar  and  urging 
me  to  have  tea.  I  was  afraid  to  get  up  from  the 
sofa,  afraid  of  driving  away  sleep;  and  just  to  be 
sitting  in  that  room  seemed  awful.  I  did  not  get 
up,  but  fell  into  a  sort  of  doze.  When  I  started 
up  out  of  it,  nobody  was  in  the  room  and  it  was 


236        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

quite  dark.  I  woke  up  with  the  very  same  sensa- 
tion I  had  the  first  time  and  knew  sleep  was  gone. 
"  Why  am  I  here?  Where  am  I  going?  Just  as 
I  am  I  must  be  for  ever.  Neither  the  Pensa  nor 
any  other  estate  will  add  to  or  take  anything  away 
from  me.  As  for  me,  I  am  unbearably  weary  of 
myself.  I  want  to  go  to  sleep,  to  forget  —  and  I 
cannot,  I  cannot  get  rid  of  self." 

I  went  out  into  the  passage.  Sergius  was  sleep- 
ing there  on  a  narrow  bench,  his  hand  hanging 
down  beside  it.  He  was  sleeping  soundly,  and 
the  man  with  the  spot  on  his  cheek  was  also  asleep. 
I  thought,  by  going  out  of  the  room,  to  get  away 
from  what  was  tormenting  me.  But  it  followed 
me  and  made  everything  seem  dark  and  dreary. 
My  feeling  of  horror,  instead  of  leaving  me,  was 
increasing. 

"What  nonsense!"  I  said  to  myself.  "Why 
am  I  so  dejected?  What  am  I  afraid  of?" 
"  You  are  afraid  of  me  " —  I  heard  the  voice  of 
Death  — "  I  am  here." 

I  shuddered.  Yes, —  Death!  Death  will  come, 
it  will  come  and  it  ought  not  to  come.  Even  in 
facing  actual  death  I  would  certainly  not  feel  any- 
thing of  what  I  felt  now.  Then  it  would  be  simply 
fear,  whereas  now  it  was  more  than  that.  I  was 
actually  seeing,  feeling  the  approach  of  death,  and 
along  with  it  I  felt  that  death  ought  not  to  exist. 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        237 

My  entire  being  was  conscious  of  the  necessity 
of  the  right  to  live,  and  at  the  same  time  of  the 
inevitability  of  dying.  This  inner  conflict  was 
causing  me  unbearable  pain.  I  tried  to  shake  off 
the  horror;  I  found  a  half-burnt  candle  in  a  brass 
candlestick  and  lighted  it.  The  candle  with  its  red 
flame  burnt  down  until  it  was  not  much  taller  than 
the  low  candlestick.  The  same  thing  seemed  to 
be  repeated  over  and  over:  nothing  lasts,  life  is 
not,  all  is  death  —  but  death  ought  not  to  exist. 
I  tried  to  turn  my  thoughts  to  what  had  interested 
me  before,  to  the  estate  I  was  to  buy  and  to  my 
wife.  Far  from  being  a  relief,  these  seemed  noth- 
ing to  me  now.  To  feel  my  life  doomed  to  be 
taken  from  me  was  a  terror  shutting  out  any  other 
thought.  "  I  must  try  to  sleep,"  I  decided.  I 
went  to  bed,  but  the  next  instant  I  jumped  up, 
seized  with  horror.  A  sickness  overcame  me,  a 
spiritual  sickness  not  unlike  the  physical  uneasi- 
ness preceding  actual  illness  —  but  in  the  spirit, 
not  in  the  body.  A  terrible  fear  similar  to  the 
fear  of  death,  when  mingled  with  the  recollec- 
tions of  my  past  life,  developed  into  a  horror 
as  if  life  were  departing.  Life  and  death  were 
flowing  into  one  another.  An  unknown  power 
was  trying  to  tear  my  soul  into  pieces,  but  could 
not  rend  it.  Once  more  I  went  out  into  the 
passage  to  look  at  the  two  men  asleep;  once  more 


238        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

I  tried  to  go  to  sleep.  The  horror  was  always  the 
same  —  now  red,  now  white  and  square.  Some- 
thing was  tearing  within  but  could  not  be  torn 
apart.  A  torturing  sensation!  An  arid  hatred 
deprived  me  of  every  spark  of  kindly  feeling. 
Just  a  dull  and  steady  hatred  against  myself  and 
against  that  which  had  created  me.  What  did 
create  me?  God?  We  say  God.  .  .  .  "What 
if  I  tried  to  pray?"  I  suddenly  thought.  I  had 
not  said  a  prayer  for  more  than  twenty  years  and 
I  had  no  religious  sentiment,  although  just  for 
formality's  sake  I  fasted  and  partook  of  the  com- 
munion every  year.  I  began  saying  prayers: 
"  God,  forgive  me,"  "  Our  Father,"  "  Our  Lady," 
I  was  composing  new  prayers,  crossing  myself, 
bowing  to  the  earth,  looking  around  me  all  the 
while  for  fear  I  might  be  discovered  in  my  de- 
votional attitude.  The  prayers  seemed  to  divert 
my  thoughts  from  the  previous  terror,  but  it  was 
more  the  fear  of  being  seen  by  somebody  that  did 
it.  I  went  to  bed  again.  But  the  moment  I  shut 
my  eyes  the  very  same  feeling  of  terror  made  me 
jump  up.  I  could  not  stand  it  any  longer.  I 
called  the  hotel  servant,  roused  Sergius  from  his 
sleep,  ordered  him  to  harness  the  horses  to  the 
carriage  and  we  were  soon  driving  on  once  more. 
The  open  air  and  the  drive  made  me  feel  much 
better.      But   I   realised  that  something  new  had 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        239 

come  into  my  soul,  and  had  poisoned  the  life  I  had 
lived  up  to  that  hour. 

We  reached  our  destination  in  the  evening. 
The  whole  day  long  I  remained  struggling  with 
despair,  and  finally  conquered  it;  but  a  horror  re- 
mained in  the  depth  of  my  soul.  It  was  as  if  a 
misfortune  had  happened  to  me,  and  although 
I  was  able  to  forget  it  for  a  while,  it  remained  at 
the  bottom  of  my  soul,  and  I  was  entirely  domi- 
nated by  it. 

The  manager  of  the  estate,  an  old  man,  received 
us  in  a  very  friendly  manner,  though  not  exactly 
with  great  joy;  he  was  sorry  that  the  estate  was  to 
be  sold.  The  clean  little  rooms  with  upholstered 
furniture,  a  new,  shining  samovar  on  the  tea-table, 
nice  large  cups,  honey  served  with  the  tea,—  every- 
thing was  pleasant  to  see.  I  began  questioning 
him  about  the  estate  without  any  interest,  as  if  I 
were  repeating  a  lesson  learned  long  ago  and 
nearly  forgotten.  It  was  so  uninteresting.  But 
that  night  I  was  able  to  go  to  sleep  without  feel- 
ing miserable.  I  thought  this  was  due  to  having 
said  my  prayers  again  before  going  to  bed. 

After  that  incident  I  resumed  my  ordinary  life; 
but  the  apprehension  that  this  horror  would  again 
come  upon  me  was  continual.  I  had  to  live  my 
usual  life  without  any  respite,  not  giving  way  to 
my  thoughts,  just  like  a  schoolboy  who  repeats 


24o        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

by  habit  and  without  thinking  the  lesson  learned 
by  heart.  That  was  the  only  way  to  avoid  being 
seized  again  by  the  horror  and  the  despair  I  had 
experienced  in  Arzamas. 

I  had  returned  home  safe  from  my  journey;  I 
had  not  bought  the  estate  —  I  had  not  enough 
money.  My  life  at  home  seemed  to  be  just  as 
it  had  always  been,  save  for  my  having  taken  to 
saying  prayers  and  to  going  to  church.  But 
now,  when  I  recollect  that  time,  I  see  that  I  only 
imagined  my  life  to  be  the  same  as  before.  The 
fact  was  I  merely  continued  what  I  had  previously 
started,  and  was  running  with  the  same  speed  on 
rails  already  laid;  but  I  did  not  undertake  any- 
thing new. 

Even  in  those  things  which  I  had  already  taken 
in  hand  my  interest  had  diminished.  I  was  tired 
of  everything,  and  was  growing  very  religious. 
My  wife  noticed  this,  and  was  often  vexed  with 
me  for  it.  No  new  fit  of  distress  occurred  while 
I  was  at  home.  But  one  day  I  had  to  go  unex- 
pectedly to  Moscow,  where  a  lawsuit  was  pending. 
In  the  train  I  entered  into  conversation  with  a  land- 
owner from  Kharkov.  We  were  talking  about  the 
management  of  estates,  about  bank  business,  about 
the  hotels  in  Moscow,  and  the  theatres.  We  both 
decided  to  stop  at  the  "  Moscow  Court,"  in  the 
Miasnizkaia  Street,  and  go  that  evening  to  the 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        241 

opera,  to  Faust.  When  we  arrived  I  was  shown 
into  a  small  room,  the  heavy  smell  of  the  passage 
being  still  in  my  nostrils.  The  porter  brought  in 
my  portmanteau,  and  the  maid  lighted  the  candle, 
the  flame  of  which  burned  up  brightly  and  then 
flickered,  as  it  usually  does.  In  the  room  next  to 
mine  I  heard  somebody  coughing,  probably  an  old 
man.  The  maid  went  out,  and  the  porter  asked 
whether  I  wished  him  to  open  my  bag.  In  the 
meanwhile  the  candle  flame  had  flared  up,  throw- 
ing its  light  on  the  blue  wallpaper  with  yellow 
stripes,  on  the  partition,  on  the  shabby  table,  on 
the  small  sofa  in  front  of  it,  on  the  mirror  hang- 
ing on  the  wall,  and  on  the  window.  I  saw  what 
the  small  room  was  like,  and  suddenly  felt  the 
horror  of  the  Arzamas  night  awakening  within 
me. 

"  My  God!  Must  I  stay  here  for  the  night? 
How  can  I?  "  I  thought.  "  Will  you  kindly  un- 
fasten my  bag?"  I  said  to  the  porter,  to  keep 
him  longer  in  the  room.  "  And  now  I'll  dress 
quickly  and  go  to  the  theatre,"  I  said  to  myself. 

When  the  bag  had  been  untied  I  said  to  the 
porter,  "  Please  tell  the  gentleman  in  Number  8 
—  the  one  who  came  with  me  —  that  I  shall  be 
ready  presently,  and  ask  him  to  wait  for  me." 

The  porter  left,  and  I  began  to  dress  in  haste, 
afraid  to  look  at   the   walls.     "  But   what  non- 


242        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

sense  !  "  I  said  to  myself.  "  Why  am  I  frightened 
like  a  child?  I  am  not  afraid  of  ghosts — " 
Ghosts!  —  To  be  afraid  of  ghosts  is  nothing  to 
what  I  was  afraid  of!  "  But  what  is  it?  Abso- 
lutely nothing.  I  am  only  afraid  of  myself.  .  .  . 
Nonsense !  " 

I  slipped  into  a  cold,  rough,  starched  shirt,  stuck 
in  the  studs,  put  on  evening  dress  and  new  boots, 
and  went  to  call  for  the  Kharkov  landowner,  who 
was  ready.  We  started  for  the  opera  house.  He 
stopped  on  the  way  to  have  his  hair  curled,  while 
I  went  to  a  French  hairdresser  to  have  mine  cut, 
where  I  talked  a  little  to  the  Frenchwoman  in  the 
shop  and  bought  a  pair  of  gloves.  Everything 
seemed  all  right.  I  had  completely  forgotten  the 
oblong  room  in  the  hotel,  and  the  walls. 

I  enjoyed  the  Faust  performance  very  much, 
and  when  it  was  over  my  companion  proposed 
that  we  should  have  supper.  This  was  contrary 
to  my  habits;  but  just  at  that  moment  I  remem- 
bered the  walls  in  my  room,  and  accepted. 

We  returned  home  after  one.  I  had  two  glasses 
of  wine  —  an  unusual  thing  for  me  —  in  spite  of 
which  I  was  feeling  quite  at  ease. 

But  the  moment  we  entered  the  passage  with 
the  lowered  lamp  lighting  it,  the  moment  I  was 
surrounded  by  the  peculiar  smell  of  the.  hotel,  I 
felt  a  cold  shudder  of  horror  running  down  my 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC  243 
back.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  I  shook 
hands  with  my  new  friend,  and  stepped  into  my 
room. 

I  had  a  frightful  night  —  much  worse  than  the 
night  at  Arzamas;  and  it  was  not  until  dawn,  when 
the  old  man  in  the  next  room  was  coughing  again, 
that  I  fell  asleep  —  and  then  not  in  my  bed,  but, 
after  getting  in  and  out  of  it  many  times,  on  the 
sofa. 

I  suffered  the  whole  night  unbearably.  Once 
more  my  soul  and  my  body  were  tearing  them- 
selves apart  within  me.  The  same  thoughts  came 
again:  "  I  am  living,  I  have  lived  up  till  now,  I 
have  the  right  to  live;  but  all  around  me  is  death 
and  destruction.  Then  why  live?  Why  not  die? 
Why  not  kill  myself  immediately?  No;  I  could 
not.  I  am  afraid.  Is  it  better  to  wait  for  death 
to  come  when  it  will  ?  No,  that  is  even  worse ;  and 
I  am  also  afraid  of  that.  Then,  I  must  live.  But 
what  for?  In  order  to  die?"  I  could  not  get 
out  of  that  circle.  I  took  a  book,  and  began 
reading.  For  a  moment  it  made  me  forget  my 
thoughts.  But  then  the  same  questions  and  the 
same  horror  came  again.  I  got  into  bed,  lay 
down,  and  shut  my  eyes.  That  made  the  horror 
worse.  God  had  created  things  as  they  are.  But 
why?  They  say,  "Don't  ask;  pray."  Well,  I 
did  pray;  I  was  praying  now,  just  as  I  did  at  Arza- 


244        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

mas.  At  that  time  I  had  prayed  simply,  like  a 
child.  Now  my  prayers  had  a  definite  meaning: 
"  If  Thou  exist,  reveal  Thy  existence  to  me.  To 
what  end  am  I  created?  What  am  I?"  I  was 
bowing  to  the  earth,  repeating  all  the  prayers  I 
knew,  composing  new  ones;  and  I  was  adding  each 
time,  "  Reveal  Thy  existence  to  me!  "  I  became 
quiet,  waiting  for  an  answer.  But  no  answer 
came,  as  if  there  were  nothing  to  answer.  I  was 
alone,  alone  with  myself  and  was  answering  my 
own  questions  in  place  of  Him  who  would  not 
answer.  "  What  am  I  created  for?  "  "  To  live 
in  a  future  life,"  I  answered.  "Then  why  this 
uncertainty  and  torment?  I  cannot  believe  in 
future  life.  I  did  believe  when  I  asked,  but  not 
with  my  whole-  soul.  Now  I  cannot,  I  cannot! 
If  Thou  didst  exist,  Thou  wouldst  reveal  it  to  me, 
to  all  men.  But  Thou  dost  not  exist,  and  there 
is  nothing  true  but  distress."  But  I  cannot  accept 
that!  I  rebelled  against  it;  I  implored  Him  to 
reveal  His  existence  to  me.  I  did  all  that  every- 
body does,  but  He  did  not  reveal  Himself  to  me. 
"  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  unto  you,"  I  remem- 
bered, and  began  to  entreat;  in  doing  so  I  felt 
no  real  comfort,  but  just  surcease  of  despair.  Per- 
haps it  was  not  entreaty  on  my  part,  but  only  denial 
of  Him.  You  retreat  a  step  from  Him,  and  He 
goes  from  you  a  mile.      I  did  not  believe  in  Him, 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        245 

and  yet  here  I  was  entreating  Him.  But  He  did 
not  reveal  Himself.  I  was  balancing  my  accounts 
with  Him,  and  was  blaming  Him.  I  simply  did 
not  believe. 

The  next  day  I  used  all  my  endeavours  to  get 
through  with  my  affairs  somehow  during  the  day, 
in  order  to  be  saved  from  another  night  in  the 
hotel  room.  Although  I  had  not  finished  every- 
thing, I  left  for  home  in  the  evening. 

That  night  at  Moscow  brought  a  still  greater 
change  into  my  life,  which  had  been  changing  ever 
since  the  night  at  Arzamas.  I  was  now  paying 
less  attention  to  my  affairs,  and  grew  more  and 
more  indifferent  to  everything  around  me.  My 
health  was  also  getting  bad.  My  wife  urged  me 
to  consult  a  doctor.  To  her  my  continual  talk 
about  God  and  religion  was  a  sign  of  ill-health, 
whereas  I  knew  I  was  ill  and  weak,  because  of  the 
unsolved  questions  of  religion  and  of  God. 

I  was  trying  not  to  let  that  question  dominate 
my  mind,  and  continued  living  amid  the  old  un- 
altered conditions,  filling  up  my  time  with  incessant 
occupations.  On  Sundays  and  feast  days  I  went 
to  church;  I  even  fasted  as  I  had  begun  to  do 
since  my  journey  to  Pensa,  and  did  not  cease  to 
pray.  I  had  no  faith  in  my  prayers,  but  somehow 
I  kept  the  demand  note  in  my  possession  instead 


246        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

of  tearing  it  up,  and  was  always  presenting  it  for 
payment,  although  I  was  aware  of  the  impossibility 
of  getting  paid.  I  did  it  just  on  the  chance.  I 
occupied  my  days,  not  with  the  management  of 
the  estate  —  I  felt  disgusted  with  all  business  be- 
cause of  the  struggle  it  involved  —  but  with  the 
reading  of  papers,  magazines,  and  novels,  and  with 
card-playing  for  small  stakes.  The  only  outlet 
for  my  energy  was  hunting.  I  had  kept  that  up 
from  habit,  having  been  fond  of  this  sport  all  my 
life. 

One  day  in  winter,  a  neighbour  of  mine  came 
with  his  dogs  to  hunt  wolves.  Having  arrived  at 
the  meeting-place,  we  put  on  snowshoes  to  walk 
over  the  snow  and  move  rapidly  along.  The  hunt 
was  unsuccessful;  the  wolves  contrived  to  escape 
through  the  stockade.  As  I  became  aware  of 
that  from  a  distance,  I  took  the  direction  of  the 
forest  to  follow  the  fresh  track  of  a  hare.  This 
led  me  far  away  into  a  field.  There  I  spied  the 
hare,  but  he  had  disappeared  before  I  could  fire. 
I  turned  to  go  back,  and  had  to  pass  a  forest  of 
huge  trees.  The  snow  was  deep,  the  snowshoes 
were  sinking  in,  and  the  branches  were  entangling 
me.  The  wood  was  getting  thicker  and  thicker. 
I  wondered  where  I  was,  for  the  snow  had 
changed  all  the  familiar  places.  Suddenly  I  re- 
alised that  I  had  lost  my  way.     How  should  I  get 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        247 

home  or  reach  the  hunting  party?  Not  a  sound 
to  guide  me !  I  was  tired  and  bathed  in  perspira- 
tion. If  I  stopped,  I  would  probably  freeze 
to  death;  if  I  walked  on,  my  strength  would  for- 
sake me.  I  shouted,  but  all  was  quiet,  and  no  an- 
swer came.  I  turned  in  the  opposite  direction, 
which  was  wrong  again,  and  looked  round.  Noth- 
ing but  the  wood  on  every  hand.  I  could  not  tell 
which  was  east  or  west.  I  turned  back  again,  but 
I  could  hardly  move  a  step.  I  was  frightened,  and 
stopped.  The  horror  I  had  experienced  in  Arza- 
mas and  in  Moscow  seized  me  again,  only  a  hun- 
dred times  greater.  My  heart  was  beating,  my 
hands  and  feet  were  shaking.  Am  I  to  die  here? 
I  don't  wan't  want  to!  Why  death?  What  is 
death?  I  was  about  to  ask  again,  to  reproach 
God,  when  I  suddenly  felt  I  must  not;  I  ought  not. 
I  had  not  the  right  to  present  any  account  to  Him; 
He  had  said  all  that  was  necessrry,  and  the  fault 
was  wholly  mine.  I  began  to  implore  His  forgive- 
ness for  I  felt  disgusted  with  myself.  The  horror, 
however,  did  not  last  long.  I  stood  still  one  mo- 
ment, plucked  up  courage,  took  the  direction  which 
seemed  to  be  the  right  one,  and  was  actually  soon 
out  of  the  wood.  I  had  not  been  far  from  its  edge 
when  I  lost  my  way.  As  I  came  out  on  the  main 
road,  my  hands  and  feet  were  still  shaking,  and 
my  heart  was  beating  violently.      But  my  soul  was 


248        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

full  of  joy.  I  soon  found  my  party,  and  we  all 
returned  home  together.  I  was  not  quite  happy, 
but  I  knew  there  was  a  joy  within  me  which  I 
would  understand  later  on;  and  that  joy  proved 
real.  I  went  to  my  study  to  be  alone  and  prayed, 
remembering  my  sins,  and  asking  for  forgiveness. 
They  did  not  seem  to  be  numerous;  but  when  I 
thought  of  what  they  were  they  were  hateful  to 
me. 

Then  I  began  to  read  the  Scriptures.  The  Old 
Testament  I  found  incomprehensible  but  enchant- 
ing, the  New  touching  in  its  meekness.  But  my 
favourite  reading  was  now  the  lives  of  the  saints; 
they  were  consoling  to  me,  affording  examples 
which  seemed  more  and  more  possible  to  follow. 
Since  that  time  I  have  grown  even  less  interested 
in  the  management  of  affairs  and  in  family  matters. 
These  things  even  became  repulsive  to  me.  Ev- 
erything was  wrong  in  my  eyes.  I  did  not  quite 
realise  why  they  were  wrong,  but  I  knew  that  the 
things  of  which  my  whole  life  had  consisted,  now 
counted  for  nothing.  This  wTas  plainly  revealed 
to  me  again  on  the  occasion  of  the  projected  pur- 
chase of  an  estate,  which  was  for  sale  in  our  neigh- 
bourhood on  very  advantageous  terms.  I  went  to 
inspect  it.  Everything  was  very  satisfactory,  the 
more  so  because  the  peasants  on  that  estate  had  no 
land  of  their  own  beyond  their  vegetable  gardens. 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC        249 

I  grasped  at  once  that  in  exchange  for  the  right  of 
using  the  landowner's  pasture-grounds,  they  would 
do  all  the  harvesting  for  him;  and  the  information 
I  was  given  proved  that  I  was  right.  I  saw  how 
important  that  was,  and  was  pleased,  as  it  was  in 
accordance  with  my  old  habits  of  thought.  But 
on  my  way  home  I  met  an  old  woman  who  asked 
her  way,  and  I  entered  into  a  conversation  with 
her,  during  which  she  told  me  about  her  poverty. 
On  returning  home,  when  telling  my  wife  about 
the  advantages  the  estate  afforded,  all  at  once  I 
felt  ashamed  and  disgusted.  I  said  I  was  not  go- 
ing to  buy  that  estate,  for  its  profits  were  based  on 
the  sufferings  of  the  peasants.  I  was  struck  at 
that  moment  with  the  truth  of  what  I  was  saying, 
the  truth  of  the  peasants  having  the  same  desire  to 
live  as  ourselves,  of  their  being  our  equals,  our 
brethren,  the  children  of  the  Father,  as  the  Gospel 
says.  But  unexpectedly  something  which  had  been 
gnawing  within  me  for  a  long  time  became  loos- 
ened and  was  torn  away,  and  something  new 
seemed  to  be  born  instead. 

My  wife  was  vexed  with  me  and  abused  me. 
But  I  was  full  of  joy.  This  was  the  first  sign  of 
my  madness.  My  utter  madness  began  to  show 
itself  about  a  month  later. 

This  began  by  my  going  to  church;  I  was  listen- 
ing to  the   Mass  with  great  attention   and  with 


25o        MEMOIRS  OF  A  LUNATIC 

a  faithful  heart,  when  I  was  suddenly  given  a 
wafer;  after  which  every  one  began  to  move  for- 
ward to  kiss  the  Cross,  pushing  each  other  on  all 
sides.  As  I  was  leaving  church,  beggars  were 
standing  on  the  steps.  It  became  instantly  clear 
to  me  that  this  ought  not  to  be,  and  in  reality  was 
not.  But  if  this  is  not,  then  there  is  no  death  and 
no  fear,  and  nothing  is  being  torn  asunder  within 
me,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of  any  calamity  which  may 
come. 

At  that  moment  the  full  light  of  the  truth  was 
kindled  in  me,  and  I  grew  into  what  I  am  now. 
If  all  this  horror  does  not  necessarily  exist  around 
me,  then  it  certainly  does  not  exist  within  me.  I 
distributed  on  the  spot  all  the  money  I  had  among 
the  beggars  in  the  porch,  and  walked  home  instead 
of  driving  in  my  carriage  as  usual,  and  all  the  way 
I  talked  with  the  peasants. 


TWO  WAYFARERS 


TWO  WAYFARERS 

Two  men  with  bundles  over  their  shoulders  were 
walking  along  the  dusty  highroad  that  lies  between 
Moscow  and  Toula.  The  younger  man  wore  a 
short  coat  and  velveteen  trousers.  Spectacles 
gleamed  out  from  under  the  brim  of  his  new  peas- 
ant's hat.  The  other  was  a  man  of  about  fifty, 
remarkably  handsome,  dressed  in  a  monk's  frock, 
with  a  leather  belt  round  his  waist  and  a  high 
round  black  cap,  such  as  novices  wear  in  monas- 
teries. His  long  dark  beard  and  dark  hair  were 
turning  grey. 

The  younger  man  was  pale  and  sallow,  was 
covered  with  dust,  and  seemed  scarcely  able  to 
drag  one  foot  after  the  other.  The  old  man 
walked  cheerfully  along,  swinging  his  arms,  his 
shoulders  well  thrown  back.  It  seemed  as  though 
dust  dared  not  settle  on  his  handsome  face  nor  his 
body  feel  fatigue. 

The  young  man,  Serge  Vasilievich  Borzin,  was 

a  doctor  of  science  of  Moscow  University.     The 

old  man,  Nicholas  Petrovich  Serpov,  had  been  a 

sub-lieutenant  in  an  infantry  regiment  during  the 

253 


254  TWO  WAYFARERS 

reign  of  Alexander,  then  he  had  become  a  monk, 
but  was  expelled  from  the  monastery  for  bad  con- 
duct. He  had,  however,  retained  the  monastic 
garb.  The  men  had  come  together  in  this  wise. 
Borzin,  after  taking  his  doctor's  degree,  and  after 
writing  several  articles  for  the  Moscow  reviews, 
went  to  stay  in  the  country,  to  plunge  into  the 
current  of  peasant  life  and  to  refresh  himself  in 
the  waves  of  the  popular  stream,  as  he  put  it. 
After  a  month  spent  in  the  country  in  complete 
solitude,  he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  a  literary 
friend  of  his.  who  was  editor  of  a  journal : — 

"  My  Master  and  Friend  Ivan  Finogeich, 

—  It  is  not  for  us  to  predict  —  indeed  we  cannot 

—  the  ultimate  solution  of  those  problems  which 
are  solving  themselves  in  the  secrecy  of  the  village 
life  of  the  Russian  people.  Various  phases  of  the 
Russian  mind  and  its  phenomena  must  be  carefully 
taken  into  consideration  —  the  seclusion  of  their 
lives;  the  revolutionary  reforms  introduced  by  Pe- 
ter; etc.,  etc." 

The  long  and  the  short  of  it  was  that  Borzin, 
having  been  deeply  impressed  by  the  everyday  life 
of  the  people,  had  become  convinced  that  the  prob- 
lem of  determining  the  destiny  of  the  Russian  na- 
tion was  more  difficult  and  complex  than  he  had 


TWO  WAYFARERS  255 

been  wont  to  imagine,  and  that  in  order  to  find  its 
solution  he  must  traverse  Russia  on  foot;  so  he 
asked  his  friend  not  to  discuss  the  question  in  his 
journal  pending  his  return,  promising  to  set  forth 
all  that  he  discovered  in  a  series  of  articles. 

Having  written  this  letter,  Borzin  set  about 
making  preparations  for  his  journey.  Though  it 
annoyed  him,  he  had  to  consider  such  details  as 
what  he  should  wear.  He  bought  a  coat,  nailed 
boots,  and  a  hat  such  as  the  peasants  wear,  and, 
shutting  out  his  servants,  studied  himself  for  a 
long  time  in  his  glass.  He  could  not  get  rid  of 
his  spectacles,  as  he  was  too  near-sighted.  After 
this,  the  most  essential  thing  was  to  get  some 
money.  He  needed  at  least  300  roubles.  There 
was  no  money  in  his  cash-box,  so  Borzin  summoned 
his  bailiff  and  accountant  and  went  through  his 
books.  Finding  that  he  had  180  quarters  of 
oats,  he  ordered  them  to  be  sold,  but  the  bailiff 
remarked  that  the  oats  had  been  kept  for  seed. 
In  another  column  he  found  an  entry  of  160  quar- 
ters of  rye,  and  asked  if  that  would  suffice  for 
seed.  The  bailiff  replied  by  asking  if  he  wanted 
them  to  sow  last  year's  rye.  The  conversation 
ended  shortly  after,  the  bailiff  recognising  that 
Borzin  knew  as  little  about  farming  as  a  babe, 
and  Borzin  realising  that  the  rye  had  been  sown 
already,  that  new  seed  was  usually  used,  and  that 


256  TWO  WAYFARERS 

after  deducting  enough  for  daily  needs  from  the 
1 80  quarters  of  corn,  the  rest  might  be  sold. 

The  money  having  been  obtained,  Borzin  made 
up  his  mind  one  evening  to  start  next  day,  when  he 
heard  an  unknown  voice  in  the  hall,  and  his  fath- 
er's old  valet  Stephen  entered  and  announced 
Nicholas  Petrovich  Serpov. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  monk  who  used  to 
visit  your  father?  " 

"  No,  not  at  all.     What  does  he  want?  " 

"  He  wishes  to  see  you,  but  I  don't  think  he  is 
quite  himself." 

Serpov  entered  the  room,  bowed,  stamped  his 
foot  and  said, — 

"  Serpov  —  a  wayfarer."  They  shook  hands. 
"Nothing  but  ignorance  —  no  education.  I  ad- 
monish Russia  in  vain.  Russia  is  a  fool.  The 
peasant  is  industrious  but  Russia  is  a  fool.  Don't 
you  agree?  I  knew  your  father.  We  used  to  sit 
and  chat,  and  he  would  say,  '  You  will  get  on.' 
But  why  are  you  dressed  like  that?  I  am  as  plain- 
spoken  as  a  soldier,  and  I  ask  why?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  make  a  journey  on  foot." 

"  I  am  on  the  road  myself.  I  am  a  wayfarer. 
I  have  been  all  the  way  to  Greece,  to  the  Athos 
Monastery,  but  I  never  saw  any  one  as  honest  as 
our  peasants." 


TWO  WAYFARERS  257 

Serpov  sat  down,  asked  for  vodka,  and  then 
went  to  bed.  Borzin  was  puzzled.  Next  day 
Serpov  was  the  listener  and,  as  Borzin  liked  to 
talk,  Serpov  heard  all  about  his  theory  and  the  aim 
of  his  journey.  Serpov  thoroughly  approved  of 
it,  and  ended  by  offering  himself  as  companion, 
which  Borzin  accepted;  partly  because  he  did  not 
know  how  to  get  rid  of  him;  partly  because,  with 
all  his  craziness,  Serpov  could  flatter;  partly,  and 
chiefly,  because  Borzin  regarded  the  monk  as  a 
remarkable,  though  somewhat  complicated,  phe- 
nomenon of  Russian  life. 

They  set  out,  and  when  we  found  them  on  the 
highroad  they  were  nearing  the  place,  where,  ac- 
cording to  their  plan,  the  first  night  was  to  be 
spent.  They  had  accomplished  the  first  twenty- 
two  versts  of  their  journey. 

Serpov  had  a  glass  at  the  public-house  and  was 
in  good  spirits. 


KHODINKA:  AN  INCIDENT  OF  TrfE 
CORONATION  OF  NICHOLAS  II. 


KHODINKA*:    AN    INCIDENT   OF   THE 
CORONATION  OF  NICHOLAS  II. 

"  I  cannot  understand  such  obstinacy.  Why 
should  you  do  without  sleep  and  go  '  with  the 
people,'  when  you  can  go  straight  to  the  pavilion 
with  your  Aunt  Vera,  and  see  everything  without 
any  trouble?  I  told  you  Behr  had  promised  to 
pass  you  through,  though,  as  far  as  that's  con- 
cerned, you  have  the  right  of  entry  as  a  maid  of 
honour." 

It  was  thus  that  Prince  Paul  Golitsin  —  known 
in  the  aristocratic  set  as  "  Pigeon  "  —  addressed 
his  twenty-three-year-old  daughter  Alexandra, 
called  for  shortness'  sake  "  Rina." 

The  conversation  took  place  in  Moscow  on 
17th  May  1893  —  on  the  eve  of  the  popular  fete 
held  to  celebrate  the  coronation.  Rina,  a  strong, 
handsome  girl,  with  a  profile  characteristic  of 
her  race  —  the  hooked  nose  of  a  bird  of  prey  — 
had  long  ceased  to  be  passionately  devoted  to  balls 

*The  Khodinka  is   a   large   plain   outside   Moscow   where  the 
military  often   exercise.     It  was  here  that  the  people  of  Moscow 
assembled    to   celebrate    the   Tsar's    accession,    and   where    many 
hundreds  were  crushed  to  death. 
261 


262  KHODINKA 

or  social  functions,  and  was,  or  at  least  considered 
herself  to  be,  an  "  advanced  "  woman  and  a  lover 
of  "  the  people."  She  was  her  father's  only 
daughter  and  his  favourite,  and  always  did  what 
she  wished.  In  this  particular  instance  it  occurred 
to  her  that  she  would  like  to  go  to  the  popular 
festival  with  her  cousin,  not  at  mid-day  with  the 
Court,  but  together  with  the  people,  the  porter  and 
the  grooms  of  their  own  household,  who  intended 
to  start  in  the  early  morning. 

"  But,  father,  I  do  not  want  to  look  at  the  peo- 
ple ;  I  want  to  be  with  them.  I  want  to  see  how 
they  feel  towards  the  young  Tsar.  Surely  for 
once  .  .   ." 

"  Well,  well,  do  as  you  like.  I  know  how  ob- 
stinate you  are." 

"  Don't  be  angry,  father,  dear.  I  promise  to 
be  careful,  and  Alec  will  not  leave  my  side." 

Although  the  plan  seemed  wild  and  fantastic  to 
her  father,  he  gave  his  consent. 

"  Yes,  of  course  you  may,"  he  answered  when 
she  asked  if  she  might  have  the  victoria.  "  Drive 
to  Khodinka  and  send  it  back." 

"  All  right." 

She  went  up  to  him,  and  he  blessed  her,  as  was 
his  custom,  and  she  kissed  his  big  white  hand,  and 
they  separated. 

There  was  no  talk  of  anything  but  the  morrow's 


KHODINKA  263 

festival  among  the  cigarette-makers  in  the  lodgings 
let  by  the  notorious  Marie  Yakovlevna.  Several 
of  Emelian  Tagodin's  friends  had  met  in  his  room 
to  discuss  when  they  should  start. 

"  It's  not  worth  while  going  to  bed  at  all. 
You'll  only  oversleep  yourself,"  said  Yakov,  a 
bright  youth  who  occupied  a  space  behind  a 
wooden  partition. 

"  Why  not  have  a  little  sleep?  "  retorted  Eme- 
lian. "  We'll  start  at  dawn.  Every  one  says 
that's  the  thing  to  do." 

"  Well,  if  we  are  going  to  bed,  it's  time  we 
went." 

"  But,  Emelian,  mind  you  call  us  if  we  don't 
wake  up  in  time." 

Emelian  promised  he  would,  and,  taking  a  reel 
of  silk  from  a  drawer  in  the  table,  drew  the  lamp 
nearer,  and  began  to  sew  a  missing  button  on  his 
summer  overcoat.  When  he  haa  finished  this  job 
he  laid  out  his  best  clothes  and  cleaned  his  boots, 
and,  after  saying  several  prayers  — "  Our  Father," 
"  Hail  Mary,"  etc.,  the  meaning  of  which  he  had 
never  fathomed,  and  had  not  even  been  interested 
in  —  he  took  off  his  boots,  and  lay  down  on  the 
crumpled,  creaking  bed. 

"Why  not?"  he  said  to  himself.  "There  is 
such  a  thing  as  luck.  Perhaps  I  shall  get  a  lottery 
ticket  and  win."     The  rumour  had  spread  among 


264  KHODINKA 

the  people  that,  besides  other  gifts,  some  lottery 
tickets  were  to  be  distributed.  "  Well,  the  10,000 
rouble  prize  is  expecting  too  much,  but  one  might 
win  500  roubles.  What  couldn't  I  do  with  it? 
I  could  send  something  to  the  old  folk;  I'd  make 
my  wife  leave  her  situation:  it's  no  sort  of  exist- 
ence living  apart  like  this.  I'd  buy  a  good  watch 
and  a  fur  coat.  As  it  is,  it's  one  long  struggle, 
and  you're  never  out  of  your  difficulties." 

He  began  to  dream  that  he  and  his  wife  were 
walking  around  the  Alexander  Gardens,  and  that 
the  same  policeman  who  had  taken  him  up  a  year 
ago  for  using  bad  language  when  he  was  drunk 
was  no  longer  a  policeman,  but  a  general,  and  that 
this  same  general  smiled  at  him  and  invited  him 
to  go  to  a  neighbouring  public-house  with  him  to 
hear  a  mechanical  organ.  The  organ  sounded 
just  like  a  clock  striking,  and  Emelian  awoke  to 
find  that  the  clock  really  was  striking  wheezily, 
and  that  the  landlady  was  coughing  behind  his 
door.  It  was  not  quite  so  dark  as  it  had  been  the 
night  before. 

"  Don't  oversleep  yourself." 
Emelian   got  up,   went   barefooted   across   the 
room  to  the  wooden  partition  to  awake  Yasha,  and 
then  proceeded  to  dress  carefully,   greasing  and 
brushing  his  hair  before  the  broken  mirror. 

11  I'm  all  right!     That's  why  girls  are  so  fond 


KHODINKA  265 

of  me.      Only  I  don't  want  to  get  into  mischief." 

He  went  to  the  landlady,  as  arranged  the  day 
before,  to  get  some  food.  He  put  a  meat  pie, 
two  eggs,  some  ham,  and  a  small  bottle  of  vodka 
into  a  bag,  and  then  left  the  house  with  Yasha 
and  walked  towards  the  Peter  Park. 

They  were  not  alone.  Some  were  in  front; 
others  were  hurrying  up  from  behind.  From  all 
sides  happy  men,  women,  and  children,  dressed  in 
their  best,  were  collecting  together,  all  going  in 
the  same  direction.  At  last  they  reached  the  field 
called  Khodinka.  Its  edges  were  black  with  peo- 
ple. It  was  cold  in  the  early  dawn,  and  here 
and  there  smoke  was  arising  from  the  fires  which 
were  made  from  such  twigs  and  branches  as  were 
available.  Emelian  found  some  friends  who  also 
had  a  fire,  and  round  which  they  were  sitting  pre- 
paring their  food  and  drink.  The  sun  was  rising 
clear  and  bright,  and  the  general  merriment  was 
increasing.  The  air  was  filled  with  singing  and 
chattering,  and  with  jokes  and  laughter.  Every- 
thing gave  rise  to  pleasure,  but  still  greater  pleas- 
ures were  in  store.  Emelian  had  a  drink,  and, 
lighting  a  cigarette,  felt  happier  than  ever. 

The  people  were  wearing  their  best  clothes,  but 
several  rich  merchants,  with  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren, were  also  noticeable  among  the  well-dressed 
working  men.      Rina  Golitsin,  too,  was  remarka- 


266  KHODINKA 

ble  as  she  walked  at  her  cousin's  side  between  the 
wood  fires,  happy  and  radiant  at  having  got  her 
own  way,  and  at  the  thought  of  celebrating  with 
the  people  the  accession  to  the  throne  of  a  Tsar 
who  was  adored  by  them. 

11  Here's  to  your  health,  good  lady,"  cried  a 
factory  hand  to  her,  raising  his  glass  to  his  lips. 
"  Don't  refuse  to  break  bread  with  us." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  You  ought  to  answer  *  a  good  appetite  to 
you,'  "  whispered  her  cousin,  showing  off  his 
knowledge  of  popular  customs,  and  they  moved 
on. 

Accustomed  to  occupy  the  best  places  every- 
where, they  penetrated  through  the  crowd,  going 
straight  for  the  pavilion.  The  crowd  was  so  dense 
that,  notwithstanding  the  bright  weather,  a  thick 
mist  caused  by  the  breath  of  the  people,  hung  over 
the  field.      But  the  police  would  not  let  them  pass. 

"  I'm  rather  glad,"  said  Rina.  "  Let  us  re- 
turn," and  so  they  went  back  into  the  crowd. 

"  Lies,  all  lies,"  said  Emelian,  seated  with  his 
companions  in  a  circle  round  the  food  which  was 
spread  out  on  white  paper  —  in  answer  to  a  young 
factory  hand  who,  on  approaching  them,  told  them 
that  the  distribution  of  gifts  had  begun. 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  so.  It's  contrary  to  regula- 
tions,   but   they   have   begun.     I    saw    it    myself. 


KHODINKA  267 

Each  one  receives  a  mug  and  a  packet  and  away 
they  go." 

"  Of  course,  what  do  the  crazy  commissionaires 
care?     They  give  as  they  choose." 

"  But  why  should  they,  how  can  they  —  against 
regulations?  " 

"  You  see  they  can." 

"  Let's  go,  friends.     Why  should  we  wait?  " 

They  all  rose.  Emelian  pocketed  his  bottle  with 
the  remains  of  the  vodka  and  advanced  with  his 
comrades.  They  had  not  gone  more  than  twenty 
yards  when  the  crowd  became  so  dense  that  it  was 
difficult  to  stir. 

"  What  are  you  pushing  for?  " 

"  You're  pushing  yourself." 

"  You're  not  the  only  one  here." 

"  That'll  do." 

"Oh,  Lord!  I'm  crushed!"  cried  a  woman's 
voice. 

A  child  could  be  heard  screaming  on  the  other 
side. 

11  Go  to  — " 

"How  dare  you?  Are  you  the  only  one? 
Everything  will  be  taken  before  we  get  there. 
But  I'll  be  even  with  them,  the  beasts,  the  devils," 
cried  Emelian,  squaring  his  stalwart  shoulders  and 
elbowing  his  way  forward  as  best  he  could.  See- 
ing every  one  else  was  elbowing  and  pushing  he, 


268  KHODINKA 

without  knowing  exactly  why,  also  began  to  try  to 
force  a  way  for  himself  through  the  crowd.  On 
every  side  people  were  crushing  him,  but  those  in 
front  did  not  move  or  let  any  one  through  their 
ranks  —  and  all  were  shouting  and  shrieking  and 
groaning. 

Emelian  silently  clenched  his  strong  teeth  and 
frowned,  but  without  losing  heart  or  strength  he 
steadily  continued  to  push  those  in  front,  though 
he  made  but  little  progress. 

All  at  once  there  was  a  sudden  agitation;  the 
steady  surging  and  swaying  was  followed  by  a  rush 
forward  to  the  right.  Emelian  looked  to  that  side 
and  saw  something  whizz  over  his  head  and  fall 
among  the  crowd.  One,  two,  three  —  he  realised 
what  it  meant,  and  a  voice  near  him  exclaimed: 

"  Cursed  devils  —  they  are  throwing  the  things 
among  the  crowd  !  " 

The  sound  of  screaming,  laughing  and  groaning 
came  from  that  part  of  the  crowd  where  the  bags 
were  falling.  Some  one  gave  Emelian  a  severe 
blow  in  the  ribs  which  made  him  even  gloomier 
and  angrier,  but  before  he  had  time  to  recover 
from  the  blow  some  one  else  had  trodden  on  his 
foot.  Then  his  coat,  his  new  coat,  caught  and  was 
torn.  With  a  feeling  of  maliciousness  in  his  heart 
he  exerted  all  his  strength  to  advance  when  some- 
thing suddenly  happened  which  he  could  not  under- 


KHODINKA  269 

stand;  and  he  found  himself  in  an  open  space  and 
could  see  the  tents,  where  the  mugs  and  packets  of 
sweets  were  to  be  distributed.  Up  to  then  he  had 
seen  nothing  but  the  backs  of  other  people  in  front 
of  him. 

He  felt  glad,  but  only  for  a  moment,  for  he 
realised  that  the  reason  he  could  see  all  these 
was  because  those  who  were  in  front  had  reached 
the  trench  and  were  slipping  or  rolling  over  into 
it,  and  that  he  himself  was  knocked  down  on  top 
of  a  mass  of  people.  He  was  tumbling  on  those 
below,  and  others  from  behind  him  were  in  their 
turn  tumbling  on  him.  For  the  first  time  he  felt 
afraid.  As  he  fell,  a  woman  in  a  woollen  shawl 
stumbled  over  him.  Shaking  her  off,  he  tried  to 
turn  round,  but  those  behind  prevented  him  and 
his  strength  began  to  fail.  Then  some  one 
clutched  his  legs  and  screamed.  He  neither  saw 
nor  heard  anything,  but  fought  his  way  through, 
treading  on  human  beings  on  all  sides. 

"  Friends,  help, —  take  my  watch  —  my  gold 
watch,"  shrieked  a  man  near  him. 

"  Who  wants  a  watch  now?  "  thought  Emelian, 
climbing  out  to  the  other  side  of  the  trench. 

His  heart  was  divided  between  fear —  fear  for 
himself  and  for  his  own  life  —  and  anger  at  those 
wild  creatures  who  were  pushing  him.  In  spite  of 
this,  the  aim  with  which  he  had  set  out  —  to  reach 


27o  KHODINKA 

the  tents  and  get  hold  of  a  packet  with  a  lottery 
ticket  —  still  drew  him  on. 

The  tents  were  now  close  at  hand.  He  could 
see  the  distributors  quite  distinctly  and  could  hear 
the  cries  of  those  who  had  arrived  at  the  tents 
and  the  creaking  of  the  boards  on  which  the  people 
in  front  were  crowding. 

Emelian  stumbled.  He  had  only  about  twenty 
paces  more  to  go  when  he  heard  a  child's  scream 
under  or  rather  between  his  feet.  Emelian  looked 
down  and  saw  a  bare-headed  boy  in  a  torn  shirt 
lying  face  downwards,  crying  incessantly,  and 
clutching  at  his  legs.  He  felt  his  heart  stop  beat- 
ing. All  fear  for  himself  immediately  disap- 
peared and  with  it  his  anger  against  the  rest.  He 
was  sorry  for  the  boy  and,  stooping  down,  put  his 
arm  round  his  waist,  but  those  behind  him  were 
pushing  so  violently  that  he  nearly  fell  and  let  go 
the  child.  Summoning  his  strength  for  a  supreme 
effort  he  caught  him  up  again  and  lifted  him  on 
his  shoulders.  For  a  moment  the  crush  became 
less  and  Emelian  managed  to  carry  off  the  child. 

"  Give  him  to  me,"  cried  a  coachman  who  was 
at  Emelian's  side,  and  taking  the  boy,  raised  him 
above  the  crowd. 

"  Run  over  the  people." 

Looking  back,  Emelian  saw  how  the  child 
walked  further  and  further  away,  over  the  heads 


KHODINKA  271 

and  shoulders  of  the  swaying  mass,  now  rising 
above  it,  now  vanishing  in  the  crowd. 

Emelian,  however,  continued  to  advance.  He 
could  not  help  doing  so;  but  he  was  no  longer  at- 
tracted by  the  gifts  and  had  no  desire  to  reach  the 
tents.  He  thought  of  the  little  boy  Yasha,  of 
those  who  had  been  trampled  on,  and  of  those 
whom  he  had  seen  as  he  crossed  the  trench. 

When  he  reached  the  pavilion  at  last  he  received 
a  mug  and  a  packet  of  sweets,  but  they  gave  him 
no  pleasure.  What  pleased  him  was  that  the 
crush  was  over,  and  that  he  could  breathe  and 
move  about;  but  his  pleasure,  however,  only  lasted 
a  moment,  on  account  of  the  sight  which  met  his 
eyes.  A  woman,  in  a  torn  striped  shawl  and  in 
buttoned  boots  which  stuck  straight  up,  with  her 
brown  hair  loose  and  in  disorder,  was  lying  on  her 
back.  One  hand  lay  on  the  grass,  the  other,  with 
closed  fingers,  was  folded  below  her  breast.  Her 
face  was  white  —  that  bluish  white  peculiar  to 
the  dead.  She  was  the  first  who  had  been  crushed 
to  death  and  had  been  thrown  over  the  fence  right 
in  front  of  the  Tsar's  pavilion. 

When  Emelian  caught  sight  of  her,  two  police- 
men were  standing  over  her,  and  a  police  officer 
was  giving  them  directions.  A  minute  after  a  few 
Cossacks  rode  up  and  no  sooner  had  their  officer 
given  them  some  order,  than  they  rode  full  speed 


272  KHODINKA 

at  Emelian  and  at  the  others  who  were  standing 
there,  and  drove  them  back  into  the  crowd.  Eme- 
lian was  again  caught  in  the  whirl.  The  crush 
became  worse  than  ever;  and  to  add  to  the  horror, 
one  and  the  same  everlasting  crying  and  groaning 
of  women  and  children,  and  men  trampling  their 
fellows  under  foot  —  and  not  abl*  to  help  doing 
so.  Emelian  was  no  longer  terrified  or  angry 
with  those  who  were  crushing  him.  He  had  but 
one  desire  —  to  get  out,  to  be  free,  to  have  a  smoke 
and  a  drink,  and  to  explain  the  meaning  of  those 
feelings  which  arose  in  his  mind. 

He  longed  for  a  smoke  and  a  drink,  and  when 
at  last  he  managed  to  get  away  from  the  throng, 
he  satisfied  his  craving  for  these. 

It  was  not  so  with  Alec  and  Rina.  As  they  did 
not  expect  anything,  they  moved  about  among  the 
people  who  were  seated  in  groups,  chatting  with 
the  women  and  children,  when  the  whole  people 
suddenly  made  a  rush  for  the  pavilion,  the  rumour 
having  spread  that  the  sweets  and  mugs  were  being 
given  away  contrary  to  regulations,  and  before 
Rina  had  time  to  turn  round,  she  was  separated 
from  Alec  and  carried  along  by  the  crowd,  and  was 
overcome  by  terror.  She  tried  to  be  quiet,  but 
could  not  help  screaming  out  for  mercy.  But 
there  was  no  mercy,  for  they  pressed  round  her 


KHODINKA  273 

more  and  more.  Her  dress  was  torn,  and  her  hat 
also  fell  off.  She  could  not  be  quite  sure,  but  she 
thought  some  one  snatched  at  her  watch  and  chain. 
Though  she  was  a  strong  girl  and  might  have 
resisted,  she  was  in  mortal  fear  not  being  able 
to  breathe.  Ragged  and  battered  she  just  man- 
aged to  keep  on  her  feet. 

But  the  moment  the  Cossacks  charged  the  crowd 
to  disperse  it,  Rina  lost  hope  and  directly  she 
yielded  to  despair,  her  strength  failed  her  and  she 
fainted.  Falling  down  she  was  not  conscious  of 
anything  further. 

When  she  regained  consciousness  she  was  lying 
on  the  grass.  A  bearded  working  man  in  a  torn 
coat  was  squatting  beside  her  and  squirting  water 
into  her  face  as  she  opened  her  eyes;  the  man 
crossed  himself  and  spat  out  the  water.  It  was 
Emelian. 

"Who  are  you?     Where  am  I?" 

"  You're  on  Khodinka  field.  Who  am  I?  I'm 
a  man,  I've  been  badly  crushed  myself,  but  the 
likes  of  us  can  stand  a  good  deal,"  said  Eme- 
lian. 

"What's  this?"  Rina  asked,  pointing  to  the 
coppers  that  lay  on  her  breast. 

"  That's  because  people  thought  you  were  dead, 
they  gave  coppers  for  your  burial.     But  I  had  a 


274  KHODINKA 

good  look  at  you  and  thought  to  myself:     'No, 

she's  alive,'  and  I  got  some  water  for  you." 

Rina  glanced  at  herself  and  seeing  her  torn  dress 
and  bare  breast,  felt  ashamed.  The  man  under- 
stood and  covered  her. 

11  You're  all  right,  miss,  you'll  not  die." 

People  came  up  and  also  a  policeman,  while 
Rina  sat  up,  and  gave  her  father's  name  and  ad- 
dress, and  Emelian  went  for  the  cab.  The  crowd 
round  her  continued  to  increase.  When  Emelian 
returned  with  the  cab,  she  rose,  and  refusing  help, 
got  into  the  vehicle  by  herself.  She  was  so 
ashamed  of  the  condition  she  was  in. 

"  Where  is  your  cousin?  "  asked  an  old  woman. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know,"  said  Rina  in 
despair. 

(On  reaching  home  she  learnt  that  Alec  had 
managed  to  leave  the  crowd  when  the  crush  first 
began  and  he  returned  home  safely.) 

"  That  man  saved  me,"  said  Rina.  "  If  it  had 
not  been  for  him,  I  don't  know  what  would  have 
happened." 

"What  is  you  name?"  she  said,  turning  to 
Emelian. 

"Mine?     What  does  my  name  matter?  " 

"  She's  a  princess,"  a  woman  whispered  in  his 
ear.     "  Ri-i-i-ch." 

"  Come  with  me  to  my  father,   he  will   thank 


KHODINKA  275 

you."  Suddenly  the  heart  of  Emelian  seemed  to 
be  infused  with  a  kind  of  strength  so  that  he 
would  not  have  exchanged  this  feeling  for  a  lottery 
ticket  worth  200,000  roubles. 

"  Nonsense,  go  home,  miss.  What  is  there  to 
thank  me  for?  " 

"  Oh,  no.     I  would  so  much  rather. 

"  Good-bye,  miss,  God  be  with  you.  But,  there, 
don't  take  away  my  overcoat,"  and  he  showed  his 
white  teeth  with  a  merry  smile  which  lived  in 
Rina's  memory  to  console  her  for  the  most  terrible 
moments  of  her  life. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "  A  MOTHER  " 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "  A  MOTHER  " 

I  had  known  Marie  Alexandrovna  ever  since  we 
were  children.  As  so  often  happens  with  young 
people,  there  was  no  suggestion  of  love-making 
about  our  companionship,  with  the  possible  ex- 
ception of  one  evening  when  she  was  at  our  house 
and  we  played  "  Ladies  and  Gentlemen."  She 
was  fifteen,  with  plump,  rosy  hands,  beautiful 
dark  eyes,  and  a  thick  plait  of  black  hair.  I  was 
so  impressed  by  her  during  that  evening  that  I 
imagined  that  I  was  in  love  with  her.  But  that 
was  the  only  time;  during  all  the  rest  of  our  forty 
years'  acquaintance  we  were  on  those  excellent 
terms  of  friendship  which  exist  between  a  man  and 
a  woman  who  mutually  respect  each  other,  which 
are  so  delightful  when  —  as  in  our  case  —  they 
are  free  from  any  idea  of  love-making. 

I  got  a  lot  of  enjoyment  out  of  our  friendship, 
and  it  taught  me  a  great  deal.  I  have  never 
known  a  woman  who  more  perfectly  typified  the 
good  wife,  the  good  mother.  Through  her  I 
learned  much,  and  came  to  understand  many 
things. 

279 


28o     INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER" 

I  saw  her  for  the  last  time  last  year,  only  a 
month  before  her  death,  which  neither  of  us  ex- 
pected. She  had  just  settled  down  to  live  alone 
with  Barbara,  her  cook,  in  the  grounds  of  a  mon- 
astery. It  was  very  strange  to  see  this  mother 
of  eight  children  —  this  woman  who  had  nearly 
fifty  grandchildren  —  living  alone  in  that  way. 
But  there  was  an  evident  finality  about  her  deter- 
mination to  live  by  herself  for  the  rest  of  her  days 
in  spite  of  the  more  or  less  sincere  invitations  of 
her  family.  As  I  knew  her  to  be,  I  will  not  say  a 
free-thinker,  for  she  never  laid  any  stress  on  that, 
but  one  who  thought  for  herself  with  courage  and 
common  sense,  I  was  puzzled  at  first  to  see  her 
taking  up  her  abode  in  the  precincts  of  a  monas- 
tery. 

I  knew  that  her  heart  was  too  full  of  real  feeling 
to  have  any  room  for  superstition,  and  I  was  well 
aware  of  her  hatred  of  hypocrisy  and  of  every- 
thing pharisaical.  Then  suddenly  came  this  house 
close  to  the  monastery,  this  regular  attendance  at 
church  services,  and  this  complete  submission  to 
the  guidance  of  the  priest,  Father  Nicodim,  though 
all  this  was  done  unostentatiously  and  with  moder- 
ation, as  if  she  were  somewhat  ashamed  of  it. 

When  we  met  it  was  evident  that  she  wished  to 
avoid  all  discussion  of  her  reasons  for  choosing 
a  life  of  that  sort.      But  I  think  that  I  understood. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER"     281 

Although  she  had  a  sceptical  mind,  it  was  dom- 
inated by  the  fulness  of  her  heart.  When,  after 
forty  years  of  household  activity,  she  found  that 
all  her  children  had  outgrown  the  need  for  her 
care,  she  was  at  a  loose  end,  and  it  became  neces- 
sary to  seek  some  fresh  occupation  for  her  heart, 
some  fresh  outlet  for  her  feelings.  Since  the 
homes  of  her  children  could  not  satisfy  her  crav- 
ings, she  decided  to  go  into  retreat,  hoping  that 
she  would  find  the  solace  which  others  found  in 
seclusion,  the  consolation  of  religion.  Though 
her  pride,  both  on  her  own  account  and  for  the 
sake  of  her  children,  prevented  her  from  giving 
more  than  the  merest  hint  of  the  truth,  there  could 
be  no  doubt  that  she  was  unhappy. 

I  knew  all  her  children,  and  when  I  inquired 
after  them  she  answered  reluctantly,  for  she  never 
blamed  them.  But  I  could  see  what  a  tragedy, 
or  rather,  what  a  series  of  tragedies  lay  buried  in 
her  heart. 

"  Yes,  Volodia  has  done  very  well,"  she  said. 
"  He  is  President  of  the  Chamber,  and  has  bought 
an  estate.  .  .  .  Yes,  his  children  are  growing  up 
—  three  boys  and  two  girls,"  and  as  she  stopped 
talking  her  black  eyebrows  were  contracted  into 
a  frown,  and  I  could  see  that  she  was  making  an 
effort  to  prevent  herself  from  expressing  her 
thoughts,  trying  to  rid  herself  of  them. 


282     INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER" 

"Well,  and  Basil?" 

"  Basil  is  just  the  same;  you  know  the  sort  of 
man  he  is." 

"  Still  devoted  to  society?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Has  he  any  children?  " 

"  Three." 

That  is  how  we  talked  when  her  sons  and 
daughters  were  our  subject  of  conversation. 

She  would  rather  talk  of  Peter  than  of  the 
others.  He  was  the  failure  of  the  family  —  he 
had  squandered  all  that  he  had,  did  not  pay  his 
debts,  and  caused  his  mother  more  distress  than 
any  of  them.  But  he  was  her  best-beloved  in 
spite  of  his  waywardness,  for  she  saw,  as  she  put 
it,  his  "  heart  of  gold." 

There  is  often  a  peculiar  charm  about  the  rem- 
iniscences of  those  who  have  gone  through  hid- 
den sorrows,  and  it  was  only  when  we  touched 
on  the  days  of  her  careless  youth  that  she  let 
herself  go.  Our  last  talk  was  the  best  of  them 
all,  so  delightful  that  I  did  not  leave  her  home 
until  after  midnight.  It  was  full  of  tender  sym- 
pathy. It  was  about  Peter  Nikiforovich,  the  first 
tutor  her  children  ever  had.  He  was  a  graduate 
of  Moscow  University,  and  he  died  of  consump- 
tion in  her  house.  He  was  a  remarkable  man, 
and    had    exercised    a    great    influence    over    her. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER"     283 

Though  she  did  not  realise  it,  he  was  the  only  man 
whom  she  could,  or  did,  love  besides  her  husband. 

We  talked  about  him  and  about  his  theories  of 
life,  views  which  I  had  known  and  shared  at  the 
time.  He  was  not  exactly  a  disciple  of  Rousseau, 
though  he  knew  and  approved  of  his  theories,  but 
he  had  a  mind  of  the  same  type.  He  very  much 
resembled  our  usual  conception  of  the  wise  men 
of  antiquity.  He  was  full  of  the  gentle  humility 
of  unconscious  Christianity.  Though  he  was  con- 
vinced that  he  hated  the  teachings  of  Christianity, 
his  whole  life  was  one  long  self-sacrifice.  He 
was  obviously  wretched  when  he  could  find  no 
opportunity  to  deny  himself  something  for  the 
sake  of  others,  and  it  must  be  something  that 
could  only  be  relinquished  with  suffering  and  diffi- 
culty. Then  he  was  really  happy.  He  was  as  in- 
nocent as  a  child  and  as  tender  as  a  woman. 

There  may  be  some  doubt  as  to  whether  she 
loved  him;  but  there  could  be  absolutely  no  doubt 
that  she  was  his  only  love,  his  idol,  for  any  one 
who  ever  saw  him  in  her  presence.  To  banish 
any  shadow  of  question,  it  was  quite  enough  to 
watch  his  great,  round,  blue  eyes  following  her 
every  movement,  reflecting  every  shade  of  expres- 
sion on  her  face;  frail  and  attenuated  as  he  was, 
in  his  shapeless,  ill-fitting  coat,  it  was  more  than 
enough  to  see  him  draw  himself  up,  to  note  how 


284    INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER" 

he  bent  or  turned  toward  the  spot  which  she  occu- 
pied. 

Alexis  Nicolaevich,  her  late  husband,  knew  it, 
and  did  not  mind  in  the  least,  frequently  leaving 
him  alone  with  her  and  the  children  for  whole 
evenings.  The  children  knew  it.  They  loved 
both  their  mother  and  their  tutor,  and  thought  it 
only  natural  that  their  mother  and  their  tutor 
should  love  one  another. 

Alexis  Nicolaevich's  only  precaution  was  to  call 
him  "  Peter  the  Wise."  He,  too,  loved  him  and 
respected  him ;  indeed,  he  could  not  help  respect- 
ing him  for  his  exceptional  affectionate  devotion  to 
the  children,  and  for  the  unusual  loftiness  of  his 
morality;  and  never  for  a  moment  did  he  think  of 
passion  between  him  and  his  wife  as  a  possibility. 
But  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  she  did  love  him. 
His  death  was  not  only  a  deep  grief,  but  a  bereave- 
ment. Certain  sides  of  her  nature,  the  best,  the 
fundamental,  the  most  essential,  withered  away 
after  his  death. 

So  we  talked  about  him,  and  about  his  opinions 
on  life;  how  he  had  believed  that  the  highest 
morality  lay  in  taking  from  others  as  little  as 
possible,  and  in  giving  to  others  as  much  as  pos- 
sible of  oneself,  of  one's  soul;  and  how,  in  order 
that  one  might  take  as  little  as  possible,  he  believed 
that  one  should  cultivate  what  Plato  ranked  as  the 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER"     285 

highest  virtue,  abstinence:  that  one  should  sleep 
on  a  plank  bed,  wear  the  same  clothing  winter  and 
summer,  have  bread  and  water  for  one's  nourish- 
ment, or,  as  a  great  indulgence,  milk.  (That  was 
how  he  had  lived,  and  Marie  Alexandrovna  thought 
that  that  was  how  he  had  ruined  his  health.)  He 
had  held  that,  to  equip  oneself  for  giving  to  others, 
it  was  essential  to  develop  one's  spiritual  forces, 
chief  among  which  was  love,  dynamic  love,  de- 
voted to  service  in  life,  to  uplifting  of  life.  He 
would  have  brought  up  the  children  on  these  lines 
if  he  could  have  had  his  way;  but  their  parents 
insisted  upon  some  concession  to  convention,  and 
an  excellent  compromise  was  adopted.  But  un- 
fortunately, his  regime  did  not  last  long,  as  he 
only  lived  with  them  for  four  years. 

"  Just  think  of  it,"  said  Marie  Alexandrovna, 
"  I  have  taken  to  reading  rel:gious  tracts,  I  listen 
to  Father  Nicodim's  sermons,  and  believe  me  " — 
here  her  smiling  eyes  shone  with  a  glance  so  bright 
that  it  brought  to  mind  the  independence  of 
thought  which  was  so  characteristic  of  her  —  "  be- 
lieve me,  all  these  pious  exhortations  are  infinitely 
inferior  to  the  sayings  of  Peter  Nikiforovich. 
They  deal  with  the  same  things,  but  on  a  much 
lower  plane.  But,  above  all,  he  taught  one  not 
so  much  by  precept  as  by  practice.  And  how 
did  he  do  it?     Why,  his  whole  life  was  a  flame, 


286     INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER" 

and  it  consumed  him.  Do  you  remember  when 
Mitia  and  Vera  had  scarlatina  —  you  were  stay- 
ing with  us  —  do  you  remember  how  he  sat  up  at 
night  with  them,  but  insisted  upon  going  on  with 
his  lessons  with  the  older  children  during  the  day? 
He  regarded  it  as  a  sacred  duty.  And  then,  when 
Barbara's  boy  was  ill,  he  did  the  same  thing,  and 
was  quite  angry  because  we  would  not  have  the 
child  moved  to  our  house.  Barbara  was  talking 
about  him  only  the  other  day.  Then  when  Vania, 
the  page  boy,  broke  his  bust  of  some  sage  or  other, 
do  you  remember  how,  after  scolding  him,  he  went 
out  of  his  way  to  atone  for  his  anger,  begged  the 
boy's  pardon,  and  bought  him  a  ticket  for  the 
circus.  He  was  a  wonderful  man.  He  insisted 
that  the  sort  of  life  we  led  was  not  worth  living, 
and  begged  my  husband  to  give  up  our  land  to  the 
peasants  and  to  live  by  his  own  labour.  Alexan- 
der only  laughed.  But  the  advice  had  been  given 
quite  earnestly,  from  a  sense  of  duty. 

"  He  had  arrived  at  that  conclusion,  and  he  was 
right.  Yet  we  went  on  living  just  as  others  did, 
and  what  was  the  result  ?  I  made  a  round  of  visits 
last  year,  to  all  my  children  except  Peter.  Well, 
what  did  I  find?  Were  they  happy?  Still  it  was 
not  possible  to  alter  everything  as  he  wanted.  It 
was  not  for  nothing  that  the  first  man  fell  and  that 
sin  came  into  the  world." 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER"     287 

That  was  our  last  talk.  "  I  have  done  a  great 
deal  of  thinking  in  my  loneliness,"  she  said;  "  in- 
deed, I  have  done  more  than  thinking;  I  have  done 
some  writing,"  and  she  smiled  at  me  with  an  air  of 
embarrassment  that  gave  her  aged  face  a  sweet, 
wistful  expression.  "  I  have  put  down  my 
thoughts  about  all  these  things,  or  rather,  the  out- 
come of  my  experiences.  I  kept  a  diary  before  I 
was  married,  and  afterwards  too,  for  a  time. 
But  I  gave  it  up  later,  when  it  all  began,  about  ten 
years  ago."  She  did  not  say  what  had  begun, 
but  I  knew  that  she  meant  the  strained  relations 
with  her  older  children,  the  misunderstandings, 
and  the  contentions.  She  had  had  the  entire  con- 
trol of  the  family  estate  after  her  husband's  death. 
"  In  looking  through  my  possessions  here  I  found 
my  old  diaries  and  re-read  them.  There  is  a  good 
deal  in  them  that  is  silly,  but  there  is  a  good  deal 
that  is  good,  and  " —  again  the  same  smile  — "  in- 
structive, too.  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  at 
first  whether  to  burn  them  or  not,  so  I  asked 
Father  Nicodim,  and  he  said,  '  Burn  them.'  But 
that  was  all  nonsense,  you  know.  He  could  not 
understand.  So  I  didn't  burn  them."  How  well 
I  recognised  her  characteristic  illogical  consistency. 
She  was  obedient  to  Father  Nicodim  in  most 
things,  and  had  settled  near  the  monastery  to  be 
under  his  guidance;  but  when  she  thought  that  his 


288     INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER" 

judgment  was  irrational,  she  did  what  seemed  best 
to  her. 

"  Not  only  did  I  not  burn  them,  I  wrote  two 
more  volumes.  There  is  nothing  to  do  here,  so  I 
wrote  what  I  thought  about  it  all,  and  when  I  die 
—  I  don't  mean  to  die  yet:  my  mother  lived  to  be 
seventy,  and  my  father  eighty  —  but  when  I  do  die 
these  books  are  to  be  sent  to  you.  You  are  to 
read  them  and  to  decide  whether  there  is  anything 
of  real  value  in  them,  and  if  there  is,  you  will  let 
others  share  it.  For  no  one  seems  to  know.  We 
go  on  suffering  incessantly  for  our  children,  from 
before  their  birth  until  the  time  comes  when  they 
begin  to  insist  on  their  rights.  Think  of  the 
sleepless  nights,  the  anxiety,  the  pain  and  the 
despair  we  go  through.  It  would  not  matter  if 
they  really  loved  us,  or  even  if  they  were  happy. 
But  they  don't,  and  they  aren't.  I  don't  care  what 
you  say,  there  is  something  wrong  somewhere. 
That  is  what  I  have  written  about.  You  will  read 
it  when  I  am  dead.  But  I  have  said  enough  about 
it." 

I  promised,  though  I  assured  her  that  I  did  not 
expect  to  outlive  her.  We  parted,  and  a  month 
later  I  received  the  news  of  her  death.  Feeling 
faint  at  vespers,  she  had  sat  down  on  a  little  fold- 
ing stool  she  carried  with  her,  leaned  her  head 
against  the  wall,  and  died.     It  was  some  sort  of 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "A  MOTHER"     289 

heart  trouble.  I  went  to  the  funeral.  All  the  chil- 
dren were  there  except  Helen,  who  was  abroad, 
and  Mitia  —  the  one  who  had  had  scarlatina  — 
who  could  not  go  because  he  was  in  the  Caucasus 
undergoing  a  cure  for  a  serious  illness. 

It  was  an  ostentatious  funeral,  and  its  display 
inspired  the  monks  with  more  respect  for  her  than 
they  had  felt  while  she  was  alive.  Her  belongings 
were  divided  up  rather  as  keepsakes  than  with  a 
view  to  any  intrinsic  value.  In  momory  of  our 
friendship,  I  received  her  malachite  paper-weight 
as  well  as  six  old  leather-bound  diaries  and  four 
new  ordinary  manuscript  books  in  which,  as  she 
had  said,  she  had  written  "  about  it  all  "  while 
living  near  the  monastery. 

The  book  contains  this  remarkable  woman's 
touching  and  instructive  story. 

As  I  knew  her  and  her  husband  throughout  their 
life  together,  and  watched  the  growth  and  devel- 
opment of  her  children  from  the  time  of  their 
birth  to  the  time  of  their  marriage,  I  have  been 
able  to  fill  in  any  omission  in  her  memoirs  from 
my  own  reminiscences  whenever  it  has  seemed 
necessary  to  make  the  story  more  clear. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

It  is  the  3rd  of  May  1857,  and  I  begin  a  new 
diary.  My  old  one  covers  a  long  period,  but  I 
did  not  write  it  properly;  there  was  too  much  in- 
trospection, too  much  sentimentality  and  nonsense 
—  about  being  in  love  with  Ivan  Zakharovich  — 
the  desire  to  be  famous,  or  to  enter  a  convent.  I 
have  just  read  over  a  good  deal  that  was  nice, 
written  when  I  was  fifteen  or  sixteen.  But  now 
it  is  quite  different.  I  am  twenty,  and  I  really  am 
in  love  and  in  a  state  of  ecstasy.  I  do  not  worry 
myself  with  fears  as  to  whether  it  is  real,  or 
whether  this  is  what  true  love  should  be,  or 
whether  my  love  is  inadequate;  on  the  contrary, 
I  am  afraid  that  this  is  the  real  thing,  fate;  that 
I  love  far,  far  too  much,  and  cannot  help  loving, 
and  I  am  afraid.  There  is  something  serious  and 
dignified  about  him  —  his  face,  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  his  cheery  word  —  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  is  always  bright  and  laughing,  and  can  turn 
everything  round  so  that  it  becomes  graceful, 
clever,  and  humorous.  Every  one  is  amused,  and 
so  am  I;  yet  there  is  something  solemn  about  it. 
293 


294     THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 
Our  eyes  meet;  they  pierce  deep,  deep  down  into 
the  other's,   and  go   farther  and   farther.     I  am 
frightened,  and  I  see  that  he  is  too. 

But  I  will  describe  it  all  in  order.  He  is  the 
son  of  Anna  Pavlovna  Lutkovsky,  and  is  related 
to  the  Obolenskys  and  the  Mikashins;  his  eldest 
brother  is  the  Lutkovsky  who  distinguished  him- 
self at  the  siege  of  Sevastopol,  and  he  himself, 
Alexis,*  is  mine,  yes  mine!  He  was  in  Sevas- 
topol, too,  but  only  because  he  did  not  want  to 
be  safe  at  home  when  other  men  were  dying 
there.  He  is  above  ambition.  After  the  cam- 
paign he  left  the  army,  and  did  some  sort  of  work 
in  Petersburg;  now  he  has  come  to  our  province, 
and  is  on  the  Committee.  He  is  young,  but 
he  is  liked  and  appreciated.  Michel  brought 
him  to  our  house,  and  he  became  intimate  with  us 
at  once.  Mother  took  a  fancy  to  him,  and  was 
very  friendly.  Father,  as  usual  with  all  young 
men  who  wished  to  marry  his  daughters,  received 
him  coldly.  He  at  once  began  to  pay  attention 
to  Madia,  the  sort  of  attention  men  do  pay  to  girls 
of  sixteen;  but  in  my  innermost  heart  I  knew  at 
once  that  it  was  I,  only  I  did  not  dare  to  own 
it  even  to  myself.  He  used  to  come  often;  and 
from  the  first  day,  although  nothing  was  said,  I 
knew  that  it  was  all  over  —  that  it  was  he.     Yes- 

*  "  Peter  "  is  the  original. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER     295 

terday,  on  leaving,  he  pressed  my  hand.  We 
were  on  the  landing  of  the  staircase.  I  do  not 
know  why,  but  I  felt  that  I  was  blushing.  He 
looked  at  me,  and  he  blushed  also;  and  lost  his 
head  so  completely  that  he  turned  round  and  ran 
downstairs,  dropped  his  hat,  picked  it  up,  and 
stopped  outside  in  the  porch. 

I  went  upstairs  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
His  carriage  drove  up,  but  he  did  not  get  in.  I 
leaned  out  to  look  into  the  porch.  He  was  stand- 
ing there,  stroking  his  beard  into  his  mouth,  and 
biting  it.  I  was  afraid  he  might  turn  round,  and 
so  I  moved  away  from  the  window,  and  at  the 
same  moment  I  heard  his  step  on  the  stairs.  He 
was  running  up  quickly,  impetuously.  How  I 
knew  I  cannot  say,  but  I  went  to  the  door  and 
stood  still,  waiting.  My  heart  ceased  to  beat;  it 
seemed  to  stand  still,  and  my  breast  heaved  pain- 
fully, yet  joyfully.  Why  1  knew  I  cannot  say. 
But  I  knew.  He  might  very  well  have  run  up- 
stairs and  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  forgot  my 
cigarettes,"  or  something  like  that.  That  might 
very  well  have  happened.  What  should  I  have 
done  then?  But  no,  that  was  impossible.  What 
was  to  be  —  was.  His  face  was  solemn,  timid, 
determined,  and  joyful.  His  eyes  shone,  his  lips 
quivered.  He  had  his  overcoat  on,  and  held  his 
hat  in  his  hand.     We  were   alone  —  every  one 


296     THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

was  on  the  veranda,  "  Marie  Alexandrovna,"  * 
he  said,  stopping  on  the  last  step,  "  it's  best  to 
have  it  over  once  for  all  than  to  go  on  in  misery, 
and  perhaps  to  upset  you."  I  felt  ill  at  ease,  but 
painfully  happy.  Those  dear  eyes,  that  beautiful 
forehead,  those  trembling  lips,  so  much  more  used 
to  smiling,  and  the  timidity  of  the  strong  energetic 
figure!  I  felt  sobs  rising  to  my  throat.  I  expect 
he  saw  the  expression  on  my  face. 

"  Marie  Alexandrovna,*  you  know  what  I  want 
to  tell  you,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know  "...  I  began.      "  Yes,  I  do." 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  "  you  know  what  I  mean 
to  ask  you,  and  do  not  dare."  He  broke  off,  and 
then,  suddenly,  as  though  angry  with  himself: 
"  Well,  what  is  to  be,  will  be.  Can  you  love  me 
as  I  love  you;  be  my  wife.     Yes  or  no?  " 

I  could  not  spdak.  Joy  suffocated  me.  I  held 
out  my  hand.  He  took  it  and  kissed  it.  "  Is  it 
really  yes?  Truly?  Yes?  You  knew,  didn't 
you.  I  have  suffered  so  long.  I  need  not  go 
away?  " 

"  No,  no." 

I  said  that  I  loved  him,  and  we  kissed;  and  that 
first  kiss  seemed  strange  and  unpleasant  rather  than 
pleasant,  our  lips  just  touching  the  other's  face, 

*  "  Barbara   Nicolaevna  "   in   the  original. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER     297 

as  though  by  chance.  He  went  down  and  sent 
away  his  carriage,  and  I  ran  off  to  mother.  She 
went  to  father,  who  came  out  of  his  room.  It 
was  all  over  —  we  were  engaged.  It  was  past 
one  when  he  left,  and  he  will  come  again  to- 
morrow, and  the  wedding  will  be  in  a  month. 
He  wanted  it  to  be  next  week,  but  mother  would 
not  hear  of  it. 

It  was  fifty-seven  years  ago.  The  war  was  just 
over.  The  Voronov  household  was  busy  with 
wedding  preparations.  The  second  daughter, 
Marie,*  was  engaged  to  Alexis  Lutkovsky.f 
They  had  known  each  other  since  childhood. J 
They  had  played  and  danced  together.  Now  he 
had  returned  from  Sevastopol,  with  the  rank  of 
lieutenant. 

At  the  very  height  of  the  war  he  had  left  the 
civil  service  to  join  a  regiment  as  an  ensign.  On 
his  return  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  what  to 
do.  He  felt  nothing  but  contempt  for  military 
service,  especially  in  the  Guards,  and  did  not  want 
to  go  on  with  it  in  time  of  peace.  But  an  uncle 
wanted  him  to  be  his  aide-de-camp  in  Kiev.  A 
cousin  offered  him  a  post  at  Constantinople.     His 

*  "  Barbara  "  in  the  original, 
t  "  Evgraf   Lotukhine"    in    the  original. 

t  See  p.  294  where  she  says,  "  Michel  introduced  him  to  our 
house,"  etc. 


298     THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

ex-chief  asked  him  to  go  back  to  his  former  post. 
He  had  plenty  of  friends  and  relatives,  and  they 
were  all  fond  of  him.  They  were  not  quite  fond 
enough  of  him  to  miss  him  when  he  was  not 
there,  but  they  were  fond  enough  to  say  when  he 
appeared  (at  least  most  of  them) ,  "  Ah,  Alexis  !  * 
how  jolly!"  He  was  never  in  any  one's  way, 
and  most  people  liked  to  have  him  about,  though 
for  very  different  reasons.  He  could  tell  stories, 
and  sing  or  play  the  guitar  in  first-rate  fashion. 
But,  above  all,  he  never  gave  himself  any  airs. 
He  was  clever,  good-looking,  good-natured,  and 
sympathetic.  While  he  was  looking  round  and 
discussing  where  and  with  whom  he  should  work, 
and  while  he  was  thinking  the  matter  over  and 
weighing  it  very  carefully,  notwithstanding  his 
seeming  indifference,  he  met  the  Voronovs  in 
Moscow.  They  invited  him  to  their  country- 
house,  where  he  went  and  stayed  a  week;  then  left, 
and  a  week  later  returned  and  proposed. 

He  was  accepted  with  great  pleasure.  It  was  a 
good  match.     He  became  engaged. 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  particularly  pleased 
about,"  said  old  Voronov  to  his  wife,  who  was 
standing  near  his  desk  looking  at  him  wist- 
fully. 

"  He  is  good-natured." 

*  "  Grisha  "    in    the   original. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER     299 

"  Good-natured,  indeed!  That's  not  the  point. 
But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  has  lived:  he  has  lived 
a  good  deal.  I  know  the  Lutkovsky  *  stock. 
What  has  he  got  except  good  intentions  and 
his  service?  What  we  can  give  them  will  not 
provide  for  them." 

"  But  they  love  one  another,  and  they  have 
been  so  frank  about  it,"  she  said.  She  was  so 
gentle  and  so  mild. 

"  Yes,  of  course,  he's  all  right.  They're  all 
alike,  but  I  wanted  some  one  better  for  Marie. f 
She  is  such  an  open-hearted,  tender  little  soul, 
There  was  something  else  I  had  wished  for.  But 
it  can't  be  helped.  Come."  And  they  left  the 
room  together. 

Just  at  first  father  seemed  displeased.  No,  not 
exactly  displeased,  but  sad,  not  quite  himself.  I 
know  him.  Tust  as  though  he  did  not  like  him. 
I  cannot  understand  it;  I  am  not  the  only  one.  It 
is  not  because  I  am  engaged  to  him,  but  nobility, 
truthfulness,  and  purity  are  so  clearly  written  all 
over  his  being  that  one  could  not  find  more  of 
them  anywhere.  It  is  evident  that  what  is  in  his 
mind  is  on  his  tongue:  he  has  nothing  to  hide. 
He  only  hides  his  own  noble  qualities.  He  will 
not,  he  cannot  bear  to  speak  of  his  Sevastopol  ex- 

*  "  Lotukhine  "    in   the   original, 
t"  Barbara"  in  the  original. 


3oo     THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

ploits,  nor  about  Michel.  He  blushed  when  I 
spoke  of  him.  I  thank  Thee,  Lord.  I  desire 
nothing,  nothing  more. 

Lutkovsky  *  went  to  Moscow  to  make  prepar- 
ations for  the  wedding.  He  stopped  at  the  chev- 
alier, and  there  on  the  stairway  he  met  Souschov. 
"  Ah,  Alexis, t  is  it  true  that  you  are  going  to  get 
married?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  true." 

"  I  congratulate  you.  I  know  them.  It  is  a 
charming  family.  I  knew  your  bride  too.  She 
is  beautiful.      Let  us  have  dinner  together." 

They  dined  together,  and  had  first  one  bottle, 
then  a  second. 

"  Let's  be  off.  Let's  drive  somewhere;  there's 
nothing  else  to  do." 

They  drove  to  the  Hermitage,  which  had  only 
just  been  opened.  As  they  approached  the  thea- 
tre they  met  Anna.  Anna  did  not  know;  but 
even  if  she  had  known  he  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried, she  would  not  have  altered  her  manner,  and 
would  have  smiled  and  shown  her  dimples  with 
even  more  delight. 

"Oh,  there,  how  dull  you  are;  come  along!  " 
She  took  his  hand. 

*"Lotukhine"    in    the   original. 
t  "  Grisha  "   in   the  original. 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER     301 

"  Take  care,"  said  Souschov  behind  them. 
"  Directly,  directly." 

Lutkovsky  *  walked  as  far  as  the  theatre  with 
her,  and  then  handed  her  over  to  Basil,  whom  he 
happened  to  meet  there. 

"  No,  it  is  wrong.  I  will  go  home.  Why  did 
.  I  come?  " 

Notwithstanding  urgent  requests  to  remain,  he 
went  home.  In  his  hotel  room  he  drank  two 
glasses  of  seltzer  water,  and  sat  down  at  the  table 
to  make  up  his  accounts.  In  the  morning  he  had 
to  go  out  on  business  —  to  borrow  money.  His 
brother  had  refused  to  lend  him  any,  and  so  he 
had  got  it  from  a  money-lender.  He  sat  there 
making  his  calculations,  and  all  the  while  his 
thoughts  returned  to  Anna,  and  he  felt  annoyed 
that  he  had  refused  her,  though  he  felt  proud  that 
he  had  done  so. 

He  took  out  Marie's  f  photograph.  She  was 
a  strong,  well-developed,  slender  Russian  beauty. 
He  looked  at  the  picture  with  admiration,  then 
put  it  in  front  of  him  and  went  on  with  his 
work. 

Suddenly  in  the  corridor  he  heard  the  voices  of 
Anna  and  Souschov.  He  was  leading  her 
straight  to  his  door. 

*  "  Lotukhine  "  in  the  original, 
t"  Barbara's"  in  the  original. 


302     THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER 

"  Alexis,*  how  could  you?  " 

She  entered  his  room. 

Next  morning  Lutkovsky  f  went  to  breakfast 
with  Souschov,  who  reproached  him. 

"  You  must  know  how  terribly  this  would  grieve 
her." 

11  Of  course  I  do.  Don't  worry.  I  am  as  dumb . 
as  a  fish.  May  I  —  Alexis  J  has  returned  from 
Moscow,  the  same  clear,  child-like  soul.  I  see  he 
is  unhappy  because  he  is  not  rich,  for  my  sake  — 
only  for  my  sake.  Last  night  the  conversation 
turned  on  children,  on  our  future  children.  I  can- 
not believe  I  shall  have  children,  or  even  one 
child.  It  is  impossible.  I  shall  die  of  happi- 
ness. Oh,  but  if  I  had  them,  how  could  I  love 
them  and  him?  The  two  things  do  not  go  to- 
gether.    Well,  what  is  to  be  will  be." 

A  month  later  the  wedding  took  place.  In  the 
autumn  Lutkovsky  §  got  a  post  in  the  Civil  Serv- 
ice, and  they  went  to  St.  Petersburg.  In  Septem- 
ber they  discovered  that  she  was  going  to  be  a 
mother,  and  in  March  her  first  son  was  born. 

The  accouchement,  as  is  usually  the  case,  was 
unexpected,    and    confusion    ensued    just   because 


*  "  Grisha  "  in  the  original. 
t  "  Lotukhine  "  in  the  original. 
t  "  Grisha  "  in  the  original. 
§  "  Lotukhine  "  in  the  original 


THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MOTHER     303 

every  one  had  wanted  to  foresee  everything,  and 
things  actually  turned  out  quite  different. 

[This  is  only  a  fragment,  and  contains  some  inconsistencies 
and  some  confusion  in  the  names,  which  have  been  corrected. — 
Editor.] 


FATHER  VASILY:  A  FRAGMENT 


FATHER  VASILY:  A  FRAGMENT 

It  was  autumn.  Before  daybreak  a  cart  rattled 
over  the  road,  which  was  in  bad  repair,  and  drove 
up  to  Father  Vasily's  double-fronted  thatched 
house.  A  peasant  in  a  cap,  with  the  collar  of  his 
kaftan  turned  up,  jumped  out  of  the  cart,  and, 
turning  his  horse  round,  knocked  with  his  big  whip 
at  the  window  of  the  room  which  he  knew  to  be 
that  of  the  priest's  cook. 

"Who's  there?" 

"  I  want  the  priest." 

"What  for?" 

"  For  some  one  who  is  sick." 

"  Where  do  you  come  from?  " 

"  From  Vozdrevo." 

A  man  struck  a  light,  and,  coming  out  into  the 
yard,  opened  the  gate  for  the  peasant. 

The  priest's  wife  —  a  short,  stout  woman, 
dressed  in  a  quilted  jacket,  with  a  shawl  over  her 
head  and  felt  boots  on  her  feet  —  came  out  and 
began  to  speak  in  an  angry,  hoarse  voice. 

"What  evil  spirit  has  brought  you  here?  " 

"  I  have  come  for  the  priest." 
307 


3o8  FATHER  VASILY 

"  What  are  you  servants  thinking  about?  You 
haven't  lit  the  fire  yet." 

"  Is  it  time  yet?  " 

"  If  it  were  not  time  I  shouldn't  say  anything." 

The  peasant  from  Vozdrevo  went  to  the 
kitchen,  crossed  himself  before  the  ikon,  and,  mak- 
ing a  low  bow  to  the  priest's  wife,  sat  down  on  a 
bench  near  the  door. 

The  peasant's  wife  had  been  suffering  a  long 
time;  and,  having  given  birth  to  a  still-born  child, 
was  now  at  the  point  of  death. 

While  gazing  at  what  was  going  on  in  the  hut 
he  sat  busily  thinking  how  he  should  carry  off  the 
priest.  Should  he  drive  him  across  the  Kossoe,  as 
he  had  come,  or  should  he  go  round  another  way? 
The  road  was  bad  near  the  village.  The  river 
was  frozen  over,  but  was  not  strong  enough  to 
bear.     He  had  hardly  been  able  to  get  across. 

A  labourer  came  in  and  threw  down  an  armful 
of  birch  logs  near  the  stove,  asking  the  peasant  to 
break  up  some  of  it  to  light  the  fire,  whereupon 
the  peasant  took  off  his  coat  and  set  to  work. 

The  priest  awoke,  as  he  always  did,  full  of  life 
and  spirits.  While  still  in  bed,  he  crossed  himself 
and  said  his  favourite  prayer,  "  To  the  King  of 
Heaven,"  and  repeated  "  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  " 
several  times.  Getting  up,  he  washed,  brushed 
his  long  hair,  put  on  his  boots  and  an  old  cassock, 


FATHER  VASILY  309 

and  then,  standing  before  the  ikons,  began  his 
morning  prayers.  When  he  reached  the  middle 
of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  had  come  to  the  words, 
"  Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  them 
that  trespass  against  us,"  he  stopped,  remember- 
ing the  deacon  who  was  drunk  the  day  before, 
and  who  on  meeting  him  muttered  audibly,  "  Hyp- 
ocrite, Pharisee."  These  words,  Pharisee  and 
hypocrite,  pained  Father  Vasily  particularly  be- 
cause, although  conscious  of  having  many  faults, 
he  did  not  believe  hypocrisy  to  be  one  of  them. 
He  was  angry  with  the  deacon.  "  Yes,  I  for- 
give," he  said  to  himself;  "  God  be  with  him," 
and  he  continued  his  prayers.  The  words,  "  Lead 
us  not  into  temptation,"  reminded  him  how  he  had 
felt  when  hot  tea  with  rum  had  been  handed  to 
him  the  night  before  after  vespers  in  the  house  of 
a  rich  landowner. 

Having  said  his  prayers  he  glanced  at  himself 
in  a  little  mirror  which  distorted  everything,  and 
passed  his  hands  over  his  smooth,  fair  hair,  which 
grew  in  a  circle  round  a  moderately  large  bald 
patch,  and  then  he  looked  with  pleasure  at  his 
broad,  kind  face,  with  its  thin  beard,  which  looked 
young  in  spite  of  his  forty-two  years.  After  this 
he  went  into  the  sitting-room,  where  he  found  his 
wife  hurriedly  and  with  difficulty  bringing  in  the 
samovar,  which  was  on  the  point  of  boiling  over. 


3io  FATHER  VASILY 

"Why  do  you  do  that  yourself?  Where's 
Thekla?" 

"  Why  do  you  do  it  yourself?  "  mocked  his 
wife.     "  Who  else  is  to  do  it?  " 

"  But  why  so  early?  " 

"  A  man  from  Vozdrevo  has  come  to  fetch  you. 
His  wife  is  dying." 

"  Has  he  been  here  long?  " 

"  Yes,  some  time." 

"  Why  was  I  not  called  before?  " 

Father  Vasily  drank  his  tea  without  milk  (it 
was  Friday)  ;  and  then,  taking  the  sacred  elements, 
put  on  his  fur  coat  and  cap  and  went  out  into  the 
porch  with  a  resolute  air.  The  peasant  was 
awaiting  for  him  there.  "  Good-morning,  Mi- 
tri,"  said  Father  Vasily,  and  turning  up  his  sleeve, 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  after  which  he 
stretched  out  his  small  strong  hand  with  its  short 
cut  nails  for  him  to  kiss,  and  walked  out  on  to  the 
steps.  The  sun  had  risen,  but  was  not  yet  visible 
behind  the  overhanging  clouds.  The  peasant 
brought  the  cart  out  from  the  yard,  and  drove 
up  to  the*  front  door.  Father  Vasily  stepped 
quickly  on  the  axle  of  the  back  wheel  and  sat  down 
on  the  seat,  which  was  bound  round  with  hay. 
Mitri  getting  in  beside  him,  whipped  up  the  big- 
barrelled  mare  with  its  drooping  ears,  and  the 
cart  rattled  over  the  frozen  mud.  A  fine  snow 
was  falling. 


FATHER  VASILY  311 

II 

Father  Vasily's  family  consisted  of  his  wife, 
her  mother —  (the  widow  of  the  former  priest  of 
the  parish),  and  three  children  —  two  sons  and  a 
daughter.  The  eldest  son  had  finished  his  course 
at  the  seminary,  and  was  now  preparing  to  enter 
the  university;  the  second  son  —  the  mother's  fa- 
vourite, a  boy  of  fifteen  —  was  still  at  the  semi- 
nary, and  his  sixteen-year-old  daughter,  Lena,  lived 
at  home,  though  discontented  with  her  lot,  do- 
ing little  to  help  her  mother.  Father  Vasily  him- 
self had  studied  at  the  seminary  in  his  youth, 
and  had  done  so  brilliantly  that,  when  he  left  in 
1840,  he  was  at  the  top  of  his  class.  He  then 
began  to  prepare  for  entrance  into  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal academy,  and  even  dreamt  of  a  professor- 
ship, or  of  a  bishopric.  But  his  mother,  the 
widow  of  a  verger,  with  three  daughters  and  an 
elder  son  who  drank  —  lived  in  the  greatest  pov- 
erty. The  step  he  took  at  that  time  gave  a  sug- 
gestion of  self-sacrifice  and  renunciation  to  his 
whole  life.  To  please  his  mother  he  left  the 
academy,  and  became  a  village  priest.  He  did 
this  out  of  love  for  his  mother  though  he  never 
confessed  it  to  himself,  but  ascribed  his  decision 
to  indolence  and  dislike  for  intellectual  pursuits. 
The  place  to  which  he  was  presented  was  a  living 


312  FATHER  VASILY 

in  a  small  village,  and  was  offered  to  him  on  con- 
dition that  he  would  marry  the  former  priest's 
daughter.*  The  living  was  not  a  rich  one,  for 
the  old  priest  had  been  poor  and  had  left  a  widow 
and  two  daughters  in  distress.  Anna,  by  whose 
aid  he  was  to  obtain  the  living,  was  a  plain  girl, 
but  bright  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  She  liter- 
ally fascinated  Vasily  and  forced  him  to  marry 
her,  which  he  did.  So  he  became  Father  Vasily, 
first  wearing  his  hair  short  and  afterwards  long, 
and  he  lived  happily  with  his  wife,  Anna  Tik- 
honovna,  for  twenty-two  years.  Notwithstand- 
ing her  romantic  attachment  to  a  student,  the  son 
of  a  former  deacon,  he  was  as  kind  to  her  as  ever, 
as  if  he  loved  her  still  more  tenderly,  and  wished 
to  atone  for  the  angry  feelings  which  her  attach- 
ment to  the  student  had  awakened  in  him. 

It  had  afforded  him  an  opportunity  for  the  same 
self-sacrifice  and  self-denial;  the  result  of  which 
was  that  he  gave  up  the  academy,  and  felt  a  calm, 
almost  unconscious,  inner  joy. 

Ill 

At  first  the  two  men  drove  on  in  silence.  The 
road  through  the  village  was  so  uneven  that  al- 

*The  custom  of  giving  a  living  to  a  son-in-law  is  universal 
in  Russia.  The  living  is  usually  the  dowry  of  the  youngest 
daughter. 


FATHER  VASILY  313 

though  they  moved  slowly  the  cart  was  thrown 
from  side  to  side,  while  the  priest  kept  sliding  off 
his  seat,  settling  himself  again  and  wrapping  his 
cloak  round  him. 

It  was  only  after  they  had  left  the  village  be- 
hind, and  crossed  over  the  trench  into  the  meadow 
that  the  priest  spoke. 

"  Is  your  wife  very  bad?  "  he  asked. 

"  We  don't  expect  her  to  live,"  answered  the 
peasant  reluctantly. 

"  It  is  in  God's,  not  man's  hands.  It  is  God's 
will,"  said  the  priest.  "  There  is  nothing  for  it 
but  to  submit." 

The  peasant  raised  his  head  and  glanced  at  the 
priest's  face.  Apparently  he  was  on  the  point  of 
making  an  angry  rejoinder,  but  the  kind  look 
which  met  his  eyes  disarmed  him  —  so  shaking 
his  head  he  only  said:  "  It  may  be  God's  will, 
but  it  is  very  hard  on  me,  Father.  I  am  alone. 
What  will  become  of  my  little  ones?  " 

"Don't  be  faint-hearted  —  God  will  protect 
them."  The  peasant  did  not  reply,  but  swearing 
at  the  mare,  who  had  changed  from  a  trot  into  a 
slow  walk,  he  pulled  the  rope  reins  sharply. 

They  entered  a  forest  where  the  tracks  were  all 
equally  bad,  and  drove  along  in  silence  for  some 
time,  trying  to  pick  out  the  best  of  them.  It  was 
only  after  they  had  passed  through  the   forest, 


3i4  FATHER  VASILY 

and  were  on  the  high  road  which  led  through 
fields  bright  with  springing  shoots  of  the  autumn- 
sown  corn,  that  the  priest  spoke  again. 

"  There  is  promise  of  a  good  crop,"  he  said. 

"  Not  bad,"  answered  the  peasant,  and  was 
silent.  All  further  attempts  at  conversation  on 
the  part  of  the  priest  were  in  vain. 

They  reached  the  patient's  house  about  break- 
fast-time. 

The  woman,  who  was  still  alive,  had  ceased 
to  suffer,  but  lay  on  her  bed  too  weak  to  move, 
her  expressive  eyes  alone  showing  that  life  was 
not  yet  extinct.  She  gazed  at  the  priest  with  a 
look  of  entreaty,  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  him 
alone.  An  old  woman  stood  near  her,  and  the 
children  were  up  on  the  stove.  The  eldest  girl, 
a  child  of  ten,  dressed  in  a  loose  shirt,  was  stand- 
ing, as  if  she  were  grown  up,  at  a  table  near  the 
bed,  and  resting  her  chin  on  her  right  hand,  and 
supporting  the  right  arm  with  her  left,  silently 
stared  at  her  mother.  The  priest  went  to  the  bed- 
side and  administered  the  sacrament,  and  turning 
towards  the  ikon,  began  to  pray.  The  old  woman 
drew  near  to  the  dying  woman,  and  looking  at 
her  shook  her  head  and  then  covered  her  face 
with  a  piece  of  linen;  after  which  she  approached 
the  priest,  and  put  a  coin  into  his  hand.     He  knew 


FATHER  VASILY  315 

it  was  a  five  kopek  *  piece,  and  accepted  it.  At 
that  moment  the  husband  came  into  the  hut. 

"  Is  she  dead?  "  he  asked. 

"  She  is  dying,"  said  the  old  woman. 

On  hearing  this  the  girl  burst  into  tears,  mut- 
tering something.  The  three  children  on  the 
stove  began  to  howl  in  chorus. 

The  peasant  crossed  himself,  and  going  up  to 
his  wife,  uncovered  her  face  and  looked  at  her. 
The  white  face  was  calm  and  still.  He  stood 
over  the  dead  .woman  for  a  few  minutes,  then  ten- 
derly covered  the  face  again,  and  crossing  himself 
several  times,  turned  to  the  priest  and  said, — 

"  Shall  we  start?  " 

"  Yes,  we  had  better  go." 

"  All  right.  I'll  just  water  the  mare."  And 
he  left  the  hut. 

The  old  woman  began  a  wailing  chant  about  the 
orphans  left  motheiless,  with  no  one  to  feed  or 
clothe  them,  comparing  them  to  young-  birds  who 
have  fallen  from  their  nest.  At  every  verse  of 
her  chant  she  breathed  heavily,  and  was  more  and 
more  carried  away  by  her  own  wailing.  The 
priest  listened,  and  became  sad  and  sorry  for  the 
children  and  wanted  to  help  them.  He  felt  for 
his  purse  in  the  pocket  of  his  cassock,  remember- 

*  About   three   half-pence. 


3i6  FATHER  VASILY 

ing  that  he  had  a  half-rouble  (about  a  shilling) 
coin  in  it,  which  he  had  received  from  the  land- 
owner at  whose  house  he  had  said  vespers  the 
evening  before.  He  had  not  found  time  to  hand 
it  over  to  his  wife,  as  he  always  did  with  his 
money;  and,  regardless  of  the  consequences,  he 
took  out  the  coin,  and  showing  it  to  the  old 
woman,  put  it  on  the  window-sill. 

The  peasant  came  in  without  his  coat  on  and 
said  that  he  had  asked  a  friend  to  drive  the  priest 
back,  as  he  had  to  go  himself  to  fetch  some  boards 
for  the  coffin. 


IV 


Theodore,  the  friend  who  drove  Father  Vasily 
back,  was  a  sociable,  merry  giant  with  red  hair 
and  a  red  beard.  His  son  had  just  been  taken  as 
a  recruit,  and  to  celebrate  the  event,  Theodore 
had  had  a  drink,  and  was  therefore  in  a  particu- 
larly happy  frame  of  mind. 

"  Mitri's  mare  was  tired  out,"  he  said;  "why 
not  help  a  friend?  Why  not  help  a  friend?  We 
ought  to  be  kind  to  one  another,  oughtn't  we? 
Now  then,  my  beauty!  "  he  shouted  to  the  bay 
horse  with  its  tightly  plaited  tail,  and  touched  it 
with  the  whip. 


FATHER  VASILY  317 

"  Gently,  gently,"  said  Father  Vasily,  shaken 
as  he  was  by  the  jolting. 

"  Well,  we  can  go  slower.     Is  she  dead?  " 

"  Yes,  she  is  at  rest,"  said  the  priest. 

The  red-haired  man  wanted  to  express  his  sym- 
pathy, but  he  also  wanted  to  have  a  joke. 

"  God's  taken  one  wife,  He'll  send  another,"  he 
said,  wishing  to  have  a  laugh. 

"  Oh,  it  is  terribly  sad  for  the  poor  fellow!  " 
said  the  priest. 

"  Of  course  it  is.  He  is  poor  and  has  no  one 
to  help  him.  He  came  to  me  and  said,  '  Take  the 
priest  home,  will  you;  my  mare  can't  do  any 
more.'     We  must  help  one  another,  mustn't  we?  " 

"  You've  been  drinking,  I  see.  It's  wrong  of 
you,  Theodore.     It's  a  working-day." 

"  Do  you  think  I  drank  at  the  expense  of  oth- 
ers? I  drank  at  my  own.  I  was  seeing  my  son 
off.      Forgive  me,  Father,  for  God's  sake." 

"  It  is  not  my  business  to  forgive.  I  only  say 
it  is  better  not  to  drink." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  but  what  am  I  to  do?  If  I 
were  just  nobody  —  but,  thank  God,  I  am  well  off. 
I  live  openly.  I  am  sorry  for  Mitri.  Who  could 
help  being  sorry  for  him?  Why,  only  last  year 
some  one  stole  his  horse.  Oh,  you  have  to  keep 
a  sharp  eye  on  folk  nowadays." 

Theodore  began  a  long  story  about  some  horses 


318  FATHER  VASILY 

that  were  stolen  from  a  fair;  how  one  was  killed 
for  the  sake  of  its  skin  —  but  the  thief  was  caught 
and  was  beaten  black  and  blue,  said  Theodore, 
with  evident  satisfaction. 

"  They  ought  not  to  have  beaten  him." 

"  Do  you  think  they  ought  to  have  patted  him 
on  the  back?  " 

While  conversing  in  this  manner  they  reached 
Father  Vasily's  house. 

Father  Vasily  wanted  to  go  to  his  room  and 
rest,  but  during  his  absence  two  letters  had  come 
—  one  from  his  son,  one  from  the  bishop.  The 
bishop's  circular  was  of  no  importance,  but  the 
son's  letter  gave  rise  to  a  stormy  scene,  which  in- 
creased when  his  wife  asked  him  for  the  half- 
rouble  and  found  that  he  had  given  it  away.  Her 
anger  grew,  but  the  real  cause  was  the  boy's  letter 
and  their  inability  to  satisfy  his  demands  —  due 
entirely  to  her  husband's  carelessness,  she  thought. 


THE  END 


THE    FORGED    COUPON 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction 3 

The  Forged  Coupon 59 

After  the   Dance 185 

Alyosha   the    Pot „  205 

My  Dream 217 

There  are  no  Guilty  People 241 

The  Young  Tsar 26.3 


INTRODUCTION 

In  an  age  of  materialism  like  our  own  the  phe- 
nomenon of  spiritual  power  is  as  significant  and 
inspiring  as  it  is  rare.  No  longer  associated  with 
the  "  divine  right  "  of  kings,  it  has  survived  the 
downfall  of  feudal  and  theocratic  systems  as  a 
mystic  personal  emanation  in  place  of  a  coercive 
weapon  of  statecraft. 

Freed  from  its  ancient  shackles  of  dogma  and 
despotism  it  eludes  analysis.  We  know  not  how 
to  gauge  its  effect  on  others,  nor  even  upon  our- 
selves. Like  the  wind,  it  permeates  the  atmos- 
phere we  breathe,  and  baffles  while  it  stimulates 
the  mind  with  its  intangible  but  compelling  force. 

This  psychic  power,  which  the  dead  weight  of 
materialism  is  impotent  to  suppress,  is  revealed 
in  the  lives  and  writings  of  men  of  the  most  di- 
verse creeds  and  nationalities.  Apart  from  those 
who,  like  Buddha  and  Mahomet,  have  been  raised 
to  the  height  of  demi-gods  by  worshipping  mil- 
lions, there  are  names  which  leap  inevitably  to  the 
mind  —  such  names  as  Savonarola,  Luther,  Cal- 
vin, Rousseau  —  which  stand  for  types  and  ex- 
emplars   of    spiritual    aspiration.     To    this    high 


4  INTRODUCTION 

priesthood  of  the  quick  among  the  dead,  who  can 
doubt  that  time  will  admit  Leo  Tolstoy  —  a  genius 
whose  greatness  has  been  obscured  from  us  rather 
than  enhanced  by  his  duality;  a  realist  who  strove 
to  demolish  the  mysticism  of  Christianity,  and  be- 
came himself  a  mystic  in  the  contemplation  of 
Nature;  a  man  of  ardent  temperament  and  robust 
physique,  keenly  susceptible  to  human  passions 
and  desires,  who  battled  with  himself  from  early 
manhood  until  the  spirit,  gathering  strength  with 
years,  inexorably  subdued  the  flesh. 

Tolstoy  the  realist  steps  without  cavil  into  the 
front  rank  of  modern  writers;  Tolstoy  the  ideal- 
ist has  been  constantly  derided  and  scorned  by 
men  of  like  birth  and  education  with  himself  — 
his  altruism  denounced  as  impracticable,  his 
preaching  compared  with  his  mode  of  life  to  prove 
him  inconsistent,  if  not  insincere.  This  is  the 
prevailing  attitude  of  politicians  and  literary  men. 

Must  one  conclude  that  the  mass  of  mankind 
has  lost  touch  with  idealism?  On  the  contrary, 
in  spite  of  modern  materialism,  or  even  because  of 
it,  many  leaders  of  spiritual  thought  have  arisen 
in  our  times,  and  have  won  the  ear  of  vast  audi- 
ences. Their  message  is  a  call  to  a  simpler  life, 
to  a  recognition  of  the  responsibilities  of  wealth, 
to  the  avoidance  of  war  by  arbitration,  and  sink- 
ing of  class  hatred  in  a  deep  sense  of  universal 
brotherhood. 


INTRODUCTION  5 

Unhappily,  when  an  idealistic  creed  is  formu- 
lated in  precise  and  dogmatic  language,  it  invari- 
ably loses  something  of  its  pristine  beauty  in  the 
process  of  transmutation.  Hence  the  Positivist 
philosophy  of  Comte,  though  embodying  noble 
aspirations,  has  had  but  a  limited  influence. 
Again,  the  poetry  of  Robert  Browning,  though 
less  frankly  altruistic  than  that  of  Cowper  or 
Wordsworth,  is  inherently  ethical,  and  reveals 
strong  sympathy  with  sinning  and  suffering  hu- 
manity, but  it  is  masked  by  a  manner  that  is 
sometimes  uncouth  and  frequently  obscure.  Ow- 
ing to  these,  and  other  instances,  idealism  sug- 
gests to  the  world  at  large  a  vague  sentimentality 
peculiar  to  the  poets,  a  bloodless  abstraction  toyed 
with  by  philosophers,  which  must  remain  a  closed 
book  to  struggling  humanity. 

Yet  Tolstoy  found  true  idealism  in  the  toiling 
peasant  who  believed  in  God,  rather  than  in  his 
intellectual  superior  who  believed  in  himself  in  the 
first  place,  and  gave  a  conventional  assent  to  the 
existence  of  a  deity  in  the  second.  For  the  peas- 
ant was  still  religious  at  heart  with  a  naive  unques- 
tioning faith  —  more  characteristic  of  the  four- 
teenth or  fifteenth  century  than  of  to-day  —  and 
still  fervently  aspired  to  God  although  sunk  in  su- 
perstition and  held  down  by  the  despotism  of  the 
Greek  Church.  It  was  the  cumbrous  ritual  and 
dogma  of  the  orthodox  state  religion  which  roused 


6  INTRODUCTION 

Tolstoy  to  impassioned  protests,  and  led  him  step 
by  step  to  separate  the  core  of  Christianity  from 
its  sacerdotal  shell,  thus  bringing  upon  himself 
the  ban  of  excommunication. 

The  signal  mark  of  the  reprobation  of  "  Holy 
Synod  "  was  slow  in  coming  —  it  did  not,  in  fact, 
become  absolute  until  a  couple  of  years  after  the 
publication  of  "  Resurrection,"  in  1901,  in  spite 
of  the  attitude  of  fierce  hostility  to  Church  and 
State  which  Tolstoy  had  maintained  for  so  long. 
This  hostility,  of  which  the  seeds  were  primarily 
sown  by  the  closing  of  his  school  and  inquisition 
of  his  private  papers  in  the  summer  of  1862,  soon 
grew  to  proportions  far  greater  than  those  arising 
from  a  personal  wrong.  The  dumb  and  submis- 
sive moujik  found  in  Tolstoy  a  living  voice  to  ex- 
press his  sufferings. 

Tolstoy  was  well  fitted  by  nature  and  circum- 
stances to  be  the  peasant's  spokesman.  He  had 
been  brought  into  intimate  contact  with  him  in  the 
varying  conditions  of  peace  and  war,  and  he  knew 
him  at  his  worst  and  best.  The  old  home  of  the 
family,  Yasnaya  Polyana,  where  Tolstoy,  his 
brothers  and  sister,  spent  their  early  years  in 
charge  of  two  guardian  aunts,  was  not  only  a  halt- 
ing-place for  pilgrims  journeying  to  and  from  the 
great  monastic  shrines,  but  gave  shelter  to  a  num- 
ber of  persons  of  enfeebled  minds  belonging  to 


INTRODUCTION  7 

the  peasant  class,  with  whom  the  devout  and 
kindly  Aunt  Alexandra  spent  many  hours  daily  in 
religious  conversation  and  prayer. 

In  "  Childhood "  Tolstoy  apostrophises  with 
feeling  one  of  those  "  innocents,"  a  man  named 
Grisha,  "  whose  faith  was  so  strong  that  you  felt 
the  nearness  of  God,  your  love  so  ardent  that  the 
words  flowed  from  your  lips  uncontrolled  by  your 
reason.  And  how  did  you  celebrate  his  Majesty 
when,  words  failing  you,  you  prostrated  yourself 
on  the  ground,  bathed  in  tears."  This  picture  of 
humble  religious  faith  was  amongst  Tolstoy's 
earliest  memories,  and  it  returned  to  comfort  him 
and  uplift  his  soul  when  it  was  tossed  and  en- 
gulfed by  seas  of  doubt.  But  the  affection  he 
felt  in  boyhood  towards  the  moujiks  became 
tinged  with  contempt  when  his  attempts  to  im- 
prove their  condition  —  some  of  which  are  de- 
scribed in  "  Anna  Karenina  "  and  in  the  "  Land- 
lord's Morning  "  —  ended  in  failure,  owing  to 
the  ignorance  and  obstinacy  of  the  people.  It 
was  not  till  he  passed  through  the  ordeal  of  war 
in  Turkey  and  the  Crimea  that  he  discovered  in 
the  common  soldier  who  fought  by  his  side  an  un- 
conscious heroism,  an  unquestioning  faith  in  God, 
a  kindliness  and  simplicity  of  heart  rarely  pos- 
sessed by  his  commanding  officer. 

The    impressions    made    upon    Tolstoy    during 


8  INTRODUCTION 

this  period  of  active  service  gave  vivid  reality  to 
the  battle-scenes  in  "  War  and  Peace,"  and  are 
traceable  in  the  reflections  and  conversation  of  the 
two  heroes,  Prince  Andre  and  Pierre  Besukhov. 
On  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Borodino,  Prince 
Andre,  talking  with  Pierre  in  the  presence  of  his 
devoted  soldier-servant  Timokhine,  says, — 

Success  cannot  possibly  be,  nor  has  it  ever 
been,  the  result  of  strategy  or  fire-arms  or  num- 
bers.' 

'  Then  what  does  it  result  from?  '  said  Pierre. 
From  the  feeling  that  is  in  me,  that  is  in 
him  '  —  pointing  to  Timokhine  —  '  and  that  is  in 
each  individual  soldier.'  " 

He  then  contrasts  the  different  spirit  animating 
the  officers  and  the  men. 

1  The  former,'  he  says,  '  have  nothing  in  view 
but  their  personal  interests.  The  critical  moment 
for  them  is  the  moment  at  which  they  are  able  to 
supplant  a  rival,  to  win  a  cross  or  a  new  order.  I 
see  only  one  thing.  To-morrow  one  hundred 
thousand  Russians  and  one  hundred  thousand 
Frenchmen  will  meet  to  fight;  they  who  fight  the 
hardest  and  spare  themselves  the  least  will  win 
the  day.' 

'  There's  the  truth,  your  Excellency,  the  real 


INTRODUCTION  9 

truth,'  murmurs  Timokhine;  '  it  is  not  a  time  to 
spare  oneself.  Would  you  believe  it,  the  men  of 
my  battalion  have  not  tasted  brandy?  "  It's  not 
a  day  for  that,"  they  said.'  " 

During  the  momentous  battle  which  followed, 
Pierre  was  struck  by  the  steadfastness  under  fire 
which  has  always  distinguished  the  Russian  soldier. 

"  The  fall  of  each  man  acted  as  an  increasing 
stimulus.  The  faces  of  the  soldiers  brightened 
more  and  more,  as  if  challenging  the  storm  let 
loose  on  them." 

In  contrast  with  this  picture  of  fine  "  morale  " 
is  that  of  the  young  white-faced  officer,  looking 
nervously  about  him  as  he  walks  backwards  with 
lowered  sword. 

In  other  places  Tolstoy  does  full  justice  to  the 
courage  and  patriotism  of  all  grades  in  the  Rus- 
sian army,  but  it  is  constantly  evident  that  his 
sympathies  are  most  heartily  with  the  rank  and 
file.  What  genuine  feeling  and  affection  rings  in 
this  sketch  of  Plato,  a  common  soldier,  in  "  War 
and  Peace !  " 

"  Plato  Karataev  was  about  fifty,  judging  by 
the  number  of  campaigns  in  which  he  had  served; 
he  could  not  have  told  his  exact  age  himself,  and 
when  he  laughed,  as  he  often  did,  he  showed  two 
rows  of  strong,  white  teeth.     There  was  not  a 


io  INTRODUCTION 

grey  hair  on  his  head  or  in  his  beard,  and  his 
bearing  wore  the  stamp  of  activity,  resolution,  and 
above  all,  stoicism.  His  face,  though  much 
lined,  had  a  touching  expression  of  simplicity, 
youth,  and  innocence.  When  he  spoke,  in  his  soft 
sing-song  voice,  his  speech  flowed  as  from  a  well- 
spring.  He  never  thought  about  what  he  had 
said  or  was  going  to  say  next,  and  the  vivacity 
and  the  rhythmical  inflections  of  his  voice  gave  it 
a  penetrating  persuasiveness.  Night  and  morn- 
ing, when  going  to  rest  or  getting  up,  he  said,  '  O 
God,  let  me  sleep  like  a  stone  and  rise  up  like  a 
loaf.'  And,  sure  enough,  he  had  no  sooner  lain 
down  than  he  slept  like  a  lump  of  lead,  and  in  the 
morning  on  waking  he  was  bright  and  lively,  and 
ready  for  any  work.  He  could  do  anything,  just 
not  very  well  nor  very  ill;  he  cooked,  sewed, 
planed  wood,  cobbled  his  boots,  and  was  always 
occupied  with  some  job  or  other,  only  allowing 
himself  to  chat  and  sing  at  night.  He  sang,  not 
like  a  singer  who  knows  he  has  listeners,  but  as 
the  birds  sing  to  God,  the  Father  of  all,  feeling  it 
as  necessary  as  walking  or  stretching  himself. 
His  singing  was  tender,  sweet,  plaintive,  almost 
feminine,  in  keeping  with  his  serious  countenance. 
When,  after  some  weeks  of  captivity  his  beard 
had  grown  again,  he  seemed  to  have  got  rid  of 
all  that  was  not  his  true  self,  the  borrowed  face 


INTRODUCTION  n 

which  his  soldiering  life  had  given  him,  and  to 
have  become,  as  before,  a  peasant  and  a  man  of 
the  people.  In  the  eyes  of  the  other  prisoners 
Plato  was  just  a  common  soldier,  whom  they 
chaffed  at  times  and  sent  on  all  manner  of  er- 
rands; but  to  Pierre  he  remained  ever  after  the 
personification  of  simplicity  and  truth,  such  as  he 
had  divined  him  to  be  since  the  first  night  spent 
by  his  side." 

This  clearly  is  a  study  from  life,  a  leaf  from 
Tolstoy's  "  Crimean  Journal."  It  harmonises 
with  the  point  of  view  revealed  in  the  "  Letters 
from  Sebastopol  "  (especially  in  the  second  and 
third  series),  and  shows,  like  them,  the  change 
effected  by  the  realities  of  war  in  the  intolerant 
young  aristocrat,  who  previously  excluded  all  but 
the  comme-il-faut  from  his  consideration.  With 
widened  outlook  and  new  ideals  he  returned  to  St. 
Petersburg  at  the  close  of  the  Crimean  campaign, 
to  be  welcomed  by  the  elite  of  letters  and  courted 
by  society.  A  few  years  before  he  would  have 
been  delighted  with  such  a  reception.  Now  it 
jarred  on  his  awakened  sense  of  the  tragedy  of 
existence.  He  found  himself  entirely  out  of  sym- 
pathy with  the  group  of  literary  men  who  gath- 
ered round  him,  with  Turgenev  at  their  head. 
In   Tolstoy's    eyes   they   were    false,    paltry,    and 


i2  INTRODUCTION 

immoral,  and  he  was  at  no  pains  to  disguise  his 
opinions.  Dissension,  leading  to  violent  scenes, 
soon  broke  out  between  Turgenev  and  Tolstoy; 
and  the  latter,  completely  disillusioned  both  in 
regard  to  his  great  contemporary  and  to  the  lit- 
erary world  of  St.  Petersburg,  shook  off  the  dust 
of  the  capital,  and,  after  resigning  his  commission 
in  the  army,  went  abroad  on  a  tour  through  Ger- 
many, Switzerland,  and  France. 

In  France  his  growing  aversion  from  capital 
punishment  became  intensified  by  his  witnessing  a 
public  execution,  and  the  painful  thoughts  aroused 
by  the  scene  of  the  guillotine  haunted  his  sensitive 
spirit  for  long.  He  left  France  for  Switzerland, 
and  there,  among  beautiful  natural  surroundings, 
and  in  the  society  of  friends,  he  enjoyed  a  respite 
from  mental  strain. 

"  A  fresh,  sweet-scented  flower  seemed  to  have 
blossomed  in  my  spirit;  to  the  weariness  and  in- 
difference to  all  things  which  before  possessed 
me  had  succeeded,  without  apparent  transition, 
a  thirst  for  love,  a  confident  hope,  an  inexplicable 
joy  to  feel  myself  alive." 

Those  halcyon  days  ushered  in  the  dawn  of  an 
intimate  friendship  between  himself  and  a  lady 
who  in  the  correspondence  which  ensued  usually 
styled  herself  his  aunt,  but  was  in  fact  a  second 


Tolstoy  as  an  Officer. 


INTRODUCTION  13 

cousin.  This  lady,  the  Countess  Alexandra  A. 
Tolstoy,  a  Maid  of  Honour  of  the  Bedchamber, 
moved  exclusively  in  Court  circles.  She  was  in- 
telligent and  sympathetic,  but  strictly  orthodox 
and  mondaine,  so  that,  while  Tolstoy's  view  of 
life  gradually  shifted  from  that  of  an  aristocrat 
to  that  of  a  social  reformer,  her  own  remained 
unaltered;  with  the  result  that  at  the  end  of  some 
forty  years  of  frank  and  affectionate  interchange 
of  ideas,  they  awoke  to  the  painful  consciousness 
that  the  last  link  of  mutual  understanding  had 
snapped  and  that  their  friendship  was  at  an  end. 
But  the  letters  remain  as  a  valuable  and  inter- 
esting record  of  one  of  Tolstoy's  rare  friendships 
with  women,  revealing  in  his  unguarded  confi- 
dences fine  shades  of  his  many-sided  nature,  and 
throwing  light  on  the  impression  he  made  both  on 
his  intimates  and  on  those  to  whom  he  was  only 
known  as  a  writer,  while  his  moral  philosophy- 
was  yet  in  embryo.  They  are  now  about  to  ap- 
pear in  book  form  under  the  auspices  of  M. 
Stakhovich,  to  whose  kindness  in  giving  me  free 
access  to  the  originals  I  am  indebted  for  the  ex- 
tracts which  follow.  From  one  of  the  countess's 
first  letters  we  learn  that  the  feelings  of  affection, 
hope,  and  happiness  which  possessed  Tolstoy  in 
Switzerland  irresistibly  communicated  themselves 
to  those  about  him. 


i4  INTRODUCTION 

"  You  are  good  in  a  very  uncommon  way," 
she  writes,  "  and  that  is  why  it  is  difficult  to  feel 
unhappy  in  your  company.  I  have  never  seen 
you  without  wishing  to  be  a  better  creature. 
Your  presence  is  a  consoling  idea.  ...  I 
know  all  the  elements  in  you  that  revive  one's 
heart,  possibly  without  your  being  even  aware 
of  it." 

A  few  years  later  she  gives  him  an  amusing 
account  of  the  impression  his  writings  had  already 
made  on  an  eminent  statesman. 

"  I  owe  you  a  small  episode.  Not  long  ago, 
when  lunching  with  the  Emperor,  I  sat  next  our 
little  Bismarck,  and  in  a  spirit  of  mischief  I  began 
sounding  him  about  you.  But  I  had  hardly  ut- 
tered your  name  when  he  went  off  at  a  gallop 
with  the  greatest  enthusiasm,  firing  off  the  list  of 
your  perfections  left  and  right,  and  so  long  as  he 
declaimed  your  praises  with  gesticulations,  cut 
and  thrust,  powder  and  shot,  it  was  all  very  well 
and  quite  in  character;  but  seeing  that  I  listened 
with  interest  and  attention  my  man  took  the  bit 
in  his  teeth,  and  flung  himself  into  a  psychic  apoth- 
eosis. On  reaching  full  pitch  he  began  to  get 
muddled,  and  floundered  so  helplessly  in  his  own 
phrases!  all  the  while  chewing  an  excellent  cutlet 
to  the  bone,  that  at  last  I  realised  nothing  but  the 
tips  of  his  ears  —  those  two  great  ears  of  his. 


INTRODUCTION  15 

What  a  pity  I  can't  repeat  it  verbatim!  but  how? 
There  was  nothing  left  but  a  jumble  of  confused 
sounds  and  broken  words." 

Tolstoy  on  his  side  is  equally  expansive,  and  in 
the  early  stages  of  the  correspondence  falls  occa- 
sionally into  the  vein  of  self-analysis  which  in  later 
days  became  habitual. 

"  As  a  child  I  believed  with  passion  and  with- 
out any  thought.  Then  at  the  age  of  fourteen  I 
began  to  think  about  life  and  preoccupied  myself 
with  religion,  but  it  did  not  adjust  itself  to  my 
theories  and  so  I  broke  with  it.  Without  it  I 
was  able  to  live  quite  contentedly  for  ten  years 
.  .  .  everything  in  my  life  was  evenly  dis- 
tributed, and  there  was  no  room  for  religion. 
Then  came  a  time  when  everything  grew  intelli- 
gible; there  were  no  more  secrets  in  life,  but  life 
itself  had  lost  its  significance." 

He  goes  on  to  tell  of  the  two  years  that  he  spent 
in  the  Caucasus  before  the  Crimean  War,  when 
his  mind,  jaded  by  youthful  excesses,  gradually 
regained  its  freshness,  and  he  awoke  to  a  sense 
of  communion  with  Nature  which  he  retained  to 
his  life's  end. 

"  I  have  my  notes  of  that  time,  and  now  read- 


16  INTRODUCTION 

ing  them  over  I  am  not  able  to  understand  how  a 
man  could  attain  to  the  state  of  mental  exaltation 
which  I  arrived  at.  It  was  a  torturing  but  a 
happy  time." 

Further  on  he  writes, — 

"  In  those  two  years  of  intellectual  work,  I  dis- 
covered a  truth  which  is  ancient  and  simple,  but 
which  yet  I  know  better  than  others  do.  I  found 
out  that  immortal  life  is  a  reality,  that  love  is  a 
reality,  and  that  one  must  live  for  others  if  one 
would  be  unceasingly  happy." 

At  this  point  one  realises  the  gulf  which  divides 
the  Slavonic  from  the  English  temperament.  No 
average  Englishman  of  seven-and-twenty  (as  Tol- 
stoy was  then)  would  pursue  reflections  of  this 
kind,  or  if  he  did,  he  would  in  all  probability  keep 
them  sedulously  to  himself. 

To  Tolstoy  and  his  aunt,  on  the  contrary,  it 
seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to 
indulge  in  egoistic  abstractions  and  to  expatiate 
on  them;  for  a  Russian  feels  none  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon's  mauvaise  honte  in  describing  his  spiritual 
condition,  and  is  no  more  daunted  by  metaphysics 
than  the  latter  is  by  arguments  on  politics  and 
sport. 


INTRODUCTION  17 

To  attune  the  Anglo-Saxon  reader's  mind  to 
sympathy  with  a  mentality  so  alien  to  his  own, 
requires  that  Tolstoy's  environment  should  be  de- 
scribed more  fully  than  most  of  his  biographers 
have  cared  to  do.  This  prefatory  note  aims, 
therefore,  at  being  less  strictly  biographical  than 
illustrative  of  the  contributory  elements  and  cir- 
cumstances which  sub-consciously  influenced  Tol- 
stoy's spiritual  evolution,  since  it  is  apparent  that 
in  order  to  judge  a  man's  actions  justly  one  must 
be  able  to  appreciate  the  motives  from  which  they 
spring;  those  motives  in  turn  requiring  the  key 
which  lies  in  his  temperament,  his  associations,  his 
nationality.  Such  a  key  is  peculiarly  necessary  to 
English  or  American  students  of  Tolstoy,  because 
of  the  marked  contrast  existing  between  the  Rus- 
sian and  the  Englishman  or  American  in  these 
respects,  a  contrast  by  which  Tolstoy  himself  was 
forcibly  struck  during  the  visit  to  Switzerland,  of 
which  mention  has  been  already  made.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  restrain  a  smile  at  the  poignant  mental  dis- 
comfort endured  by  the  sensitive  Slav  in  the 
company  of  the  frigid  and  silent  English  frequent- 
ers of  the  Schweitzerhof  ("Journal  of  Prince  D. 
Nekhludov."  Lucerne,  1857),  whose  reserve, 
he  realised,  was  "  not  based  on  pride,  but  on  the 
absence  of  any  desire  to  draw  nearer  to  each 
other";  while  he  looked  back  regretfully  to  the 


1 8  INTRODUCTION 

pension  in  Paris  where  the  table  a"  hole  was  a  scene 
of  spontaneous  gaiety.  The  problem  of  British 
taciturnity  passed  his  comprehension;  but  for  us 
the  enigma  of  Tolstoy's  temperament  is  half 
solved  if  we  see  nim  not  harshly  silhouetted 
against  a  blank  wall,  but  suffused  with  his  native 
atmosphere,  amid  his  native  surroundings.  Not 
till  we  understand  the  main  outlines  of  the  Rus- 
sian temperament  can  we  realise  the  individuality 
of  Tolstoy  himself:  the  personality  that  made  him 
lovable,  the  universality  that  made  him  great. 

So  vast  an  agglomeration  of  races  as  that  which 
constitutes  the  Russian  empire  cannot  obviously 
be  represented  by  a  single  type,  but  it  will  suffice 
for  our  purposes  to  note  the  characteristics  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Great  Russia  among  whom  Tolstoy 
spent  the  greater  part  of  his  lifetime  and  to  whom 
he  belonged  by  birth  and  natural  affinities. 

It  may  be  said  of  the  average  Russian  that  in 
exchange  for  a  precocious  childhood  he  retains 
much  of  a  child's  lightness  of  heart  throughout 
his  later  years,  alternating  with  attacks  of  morbid 
despondency.  He  is  usually  very  susceptible  to 
feminine  charm,  an  ardent  but  unstable  lover, 
whose  passions  are  apt  to  be  as  shortlived  as  they 
are  violent.  Story-telling  and  long-winded  dis- 
cussions give  him  keen  enjoyment,  for  he  is  gar- 
rulous,    metaphysical,     and     argumentative.     In 


INTRODUCTION  19 

money  matters  careless  and  extravagant,  dilatory 
and  venal  in  affairs;  fond,  especially  in  the  peas- 
ant class,  of  singing,  dancing,  and  carousing;  but 
his  irresponsible  gaiety  and  heedlessness  of  conse- 
quences balanced  by  a  fatalistic  courage  and  en- 
durance in  the  face  of  suffering  and  danger. 
Capable,  besides,  of  high  flights  of  idealism, 
which  result  in  epics,  but  rarely  in  actions,  owing 
to  the  Slavonic  inaptitude  for  sustained  and  or- 
ganised effort.  The  Englishman  by  contrast  ap- 
pears cold  and  calculating,  incapable  of  rising 
above  questions  of  practical  utility;  neither  inter- 
ested in  other  men's  antecedents  and  experiences 
nor  willing  to  retail  his  own.  The  catechism 
which  Plato  puts  Pierre  through  on  their  first  en- 
counter ("War  and  Peace")  as  to  his  family, 
possessions,  and  what  not,  are  precisely  similar 
to  those  to  which  I  have  been  subjected  over  and 
over  again  by  chance  acquaintances  in  country- 
houses  or  by  fellow  travellers  on  journeys  by  boat 
or  train.  The  naivete  and  kindliness  of  the  ques- 
tioner makes  it  impossible  to  resent,  though  one 
may  feebly  try  to  parry  his  probing.  On  the 
other  hand  he  offers  you  free  access  to  the  inmost 
recesses  of  his  own  soul,  and  stupefies  you  with 
the  candour  of  his  revelations.  This,  of  course, 
relates  more  to  the  landed  and  professional  classes 
than  to  the  peasant,  who  is  slower  to  express  him- 


2o  INTRODUCTION 

self,  and  combines  in  a  curious  way  a  firm  belief 
in  the  omnipotence  and  wisdom  of  his  social  su- 
periors with  a  rooted  distrust  of  their  intentions 
regarding  himself.  He  is  like  a  beast  of  burden 
who  flinches  from  every  approach,  expecting  al- 
ways a  kick  or  a  blow.  On  the  other  hand,  his 
affection  for  the  animals  who  share  his  daily  work 
is  one  of  the  most  attractive  points  in  his  char- 
acter, and  one  which  Tolstoy  never  wearied  of 
emphasising  —  describing,  with  the  simple  pathos 
of  which  he  was  master,  the  moujik  inured  to  his 
own  privations  but  pitiful  to  his  horse,  shielding 
him  from  the  storm  with  his  own  coat,  or  saving 
him  from  starvation  with  his  own  meagre  ration; 
and  mindful  of  him  even  in  his  prayers,  invoking, 
like  Plato,  the  blessings  of  Florus  and  Laura,  pa- 
tron saints  of  horses,  because  "  one  mustn't  forget 
the  animals." 

The  characteristics  of  a  people  so  embedded  in 
the  soil  bear  a  closer  relation  to  their  native  land- 
scape than  our  own  migratory  populations,  and 
patriotism  with  them  has  a  deep  and  vital  mean- 
ing, which  is  expressed  unconsciously  in  their 
lives. 

This  spirit  of  patriotism  which  Tolstoy  repudi- 
ated is  none  the  less  the  animating  power  of  the 
noble  epic,  "War  and  Peace,"  and  of  his  peasant- 
tales,  of  his  rare  gift  of  reproducing  the  expressive 


INTRODUCTION  21 

Slav  vernacular,  and  of  his  magical  art  of  infusing 
his  pictures  of  Russian  scenery  not  merely  with 
beauty,  but  with  spiritual  significance.  I  can 
think  of  no  prose  writer,  unless  it  be  Thoreau,  so 
wholly  under  the  spell  of  Nature  as  Tolstoy;  and 
while  Thoreau  was  preoccupied  with  the  normal 
phenomena  of  plant  and  animal  life,  Tolstoy, 
coming  near  to  Pantheism,  found  responses  to  his 
moods  in  trees,  and  gained  spiritual  expansion 
from  the  illimitable  skies  and  plains.  He  fre- 
quently brings  his  heroes  into  touch  with  Nature, 
and  endows  them  with  all  the  innate  mysticism  of 
his  own  temperament,  for  to  him  Nature  was  "  a 
guide  to  God."  So  in  the  two-fold  incident  of 
Prince  Andre  and  the  oak  tree  ("War  and 
Peace")  the  Prince,  though  a  man  of  action 
rather  than  of  sentiment  and  habitually  cynical, 
is  ready  to  find  in  the  aged  oak  by  the  roadside, 
in  early  spring,  an  animate  embodiment  of  his 
own  despondency. 

"  '  Springtime,  love,  happiness?  —  are  you  still 
cherishing  those  deceptive  illusions?'  the  old  oak 
seemed  to  say.  '  Isn't  it  the  same  fiction  ever? 
There  is  neither  spring,  nor  love,  nor  happiness! 
Look  at  those  poor  weather-beaten  firs,  always  the 
same  .  .  .  look  at  the  knotty  arms  issuing 
from  all  up  my  poor  mutilated  trunk  —  here  I 


22  INTRODUCTION 

am,  such  as  they  have  made  me,  and  I  do  not  be- 
lieve either  in  your  hopes  or  in  your  illusions.'  " 

And  after  thus  exercising  his  imagination,  Prince 
Andre  still  casts  backward  glances  as  he  passes  by, 

"  but  the  oak  maintained  its  obstinate  and  sullen 
immovability  in  the  midst  of  the  flowers  and  grass 
growing  at  its  feet.  '  Yes,  that  oak  is  right,  right 
a  thousand  times  over.  One  must  leave  illusions 
to  youth.  But  the  rest  of  us  know  what  life  is 
worth;  it  has  nothing  left  to  offer  us.'  " 

Six  weeks  later  he  returns  homeward  the  same 
way,  roused  from  his  melancholy  torpor  by  his 
recent  meeting  with  Natasha. 

"  The  day  was  hot,  there  was  storm  in  the  air; 
a  slight  shower  watered  the  dust  on  the  road  and 
the  grass  in  the  ditch;  the  left  side  of  the  wood 
remained  in  the  shade;  the  right  side,  lightly 
stirred  by  the  wind,  glittered  all  wet  in  the  sun; 
everything  was  in  flower,  and  from  near  and  far 
the  nightingales  poured  forth  their  song.  '  I 
fancy  there  was  an  oak  here  that  understood  me,' 
said  Prince  Andre  to  himself,  looking  to  the  left 
and  attracted  unawares  by  the  beauty  of  the  very 
tree  he  sought.     The  transformed  old  oak  spread 


INTRODUCTION  23 

out  in  a  dome  of  deep,  luxuriant,  blooming  ver- 
dure, which  swayed  in  a  light  breeze  in  the  rays 
of  the  setting  sun.  There  were  no  longer  cloven 
branches  nor  rents  to  be  seen;  its  former  aspect 
of  bitter  defiance  and  sullen  grief  had  disap- 
peared; there  were  only  the  young  leaves,  full  of 
sap  that  had  pierced  through  the  centenarian 
bark,  making  the  beholder  question  with  surprise 
if  this  patriarch  had  really  given  birth  to  them. 
1  Yes,  it  is  he,  indeed !  '  cried  Prince  Andre,  and 
he  felt  his  heart  suffused  by  the  intense  joy  which 
the  springtime  and  this  new  life  gave  him  .  .  . 
'No,  my  life  cannot  end  at  thirty-one!  .  .  . 
It  is  not  enough  myself  to  feel  what  is  within  me, 
others  must  know  it  too !  Pierre  ana  that  "  slip  " 
of  a  girl,  who  would  have  fled  into  cloudland, 
must  learn  to  know  me!  My  life  must  colour 
theirs,  and  their  lives  must  mingle  with  mine!  '  " 

In  letters  to  his  wife,  to  intimate  friends,  and 
in  his  diary,  Tolstoy's  love  of  Nature  is  often- 
times expressed.  The  hair  shirt  of  the  ascetic 
and  the  prophet's  mantle  fall  from  his  shoulders, 
and  all  the  poet  in  him  wakes  when,  "  with  a  feel- 
ing akin  to  ecstasy,"  he  looks  up  from  his 
smooth-running  sledge  at  "  the  enchanting,  starry 
winter  sky  overhead,"  or  in  early  spring  feels  on 
a  ramble  "  intoxicated  by  the  beauty  of  the  morn- 


24  INTRODUCTION 

ing,"  while  he  notes  that  the  buds  are  swelling  on 
the  lilacs,  and  "  the  birds  no  longer  sing  at  ran- 
dom," but  have  begun  to  converse. 

But  though  such  allusions  abound  in  his  diary 
and  private  correspondence,  we  must  turn  to 
"  The  Cossacks,"  and  "  Conjugal  Happiness  "  for 
the  exquisitely  elaborated  rural  studies,  which  give 
those  early  romances  their  fresh  idyllic  charm. 

What  is  interesting  to  note  is  that  this  artistic 
freshness  and  joy  in  Nature  coexisted  with  acute 
intermittent  attacks  of  spiritual  lassitude.  In 
"  The  Cossacks,"  the  doubts,  the  mental  gropings 
of  Olenine  —  whose  personality  but  thinly  veils 
that  of  Tolstoy  —  haunt  him  betimes  even  among 
the  delights  of  the  Caucasian  woodland;  Serge, 
the  fatalistic  hero  of  "  Conjugal  Happiness," 
calmly  acquiesces  in  the  inevitableness  of  "  love's 
sad  satiety  "  amid  the  scent  of  roses  and  the  songs 
of  nightingales. 

Doubt  and  despondency,  increased  by  the  vexa- 
tions and  failures  attending  his  philanthropic  en- 
deavours, at  length  obsessed  Tolstoy  to  the  verge 
of  suicide. 

"  The  disputes  over  arbitration  had  become  so 
painful  to  me,  the  schoolwork  so  vague,  my  doubts 
arising  from  the  wish  to  teach  others,  while  dis- 
sembling my  own  ignorance  of  what  should  be 


INTRODUCTION  25 

taught,  were  so  heartrending  that  I  fell  ill.  I 
might  then  have  reached  the  despair  to  which  I 
all  but  succumbed  fifteen  years  later,  if  there  had 
not  been  a  side  of  life  as  yet  unknown  to  me  which 
promised  me  salvation:  this  was  family  life" 
("My  Confession"). 

In  a  word,  his  marriage  with  Mademoiselle 
Sophie  Andreevna  Bers  (daughter  of  Dr.  Bers 
of  Moscow)  was  consummated  in  the  autumn  of 
1862  —  after  a  somewhat  protracted  courtship, 
owing  to  her  extreme  youth  —  and  Tolstoy  entered 
upon  a  period  of  happiness  and  mental  peace 
such  as  he  had  never  known.  His  letters  of  this 
period  to  Countess  A.  A.  Tolstoy,  his  friend  Fet, 
and  others,  ring  with  enraptured  allusions  to  his 
new-found  joy.  Lassitude  and  indecision,  mysti- 
cism and  altruism,  all  were  swept  aside  by  the  im- 
petus of  triumphant  love  and  of  all-sufficing 
conjugal  happiness.  When  in  June  of  the  follow- 
ing year  a  child  was  born,  and  the  young  wife, 
her  features  suffused  with  "  a  supernatural 
beauty  "  lay  trying  to  smile  at  the  husband  who 
knelt  sobbing  beside  her,  Tolstoy  must  have  real- 
ised that  for  once  his  prophetic  intuition  had  been 
unequal  to  its  task.  If  his  imagination  could 
have  conceived  in  prenuptial  days  what  depths  of 
emotion    might    be    wakened   by    fatherhood,    he 


26  INTRODUCTION 

would  not  have  treated  the  birth  of  Masha's  first 
child  in  "  Conjugal  Happiness  "  as  a  trivial  ma- 
terial event,  in  no  way  affecting  the  mutual  rela- 
tions of  the  disillusioned  pair.  He  would  have 
understood  that  at  this  supreme  crisis,  rather  than 
in  the  vernal  hour  of  love's  avowal,  the  heart  is 
illumined  with  a  joy  which  is  fated  "  never  to  re- 
turn." 

The  parting  of  the  ways,  so  soon  reached  by 
Serge  and  Masha,  was  in  fact  delayed  in  Tolstoy's 
own  life  by  his  wife's  intelligent  assistance  in  his 
literary  work  as  an  untiring  amanuensis,  and  in 
the  mutual  anxieties  and  pleasures  attending  the 
care  of  a  large  family  of  young  children.  Wider 
horizons  opened  to  his  mental  vision,  his  whole 
being  was  quickened  and  invigorated.  "  War 
and  Peace,"  "  Anna  Karenina,"  all  the  splendid 
fruit  of  the  teeming  years  following  upon  his  mar- 
riage, bear  witness  to  the  stimulus  which  his  genius 
had  received.  His  dawning  recognition  of  the 
power  and  extent  of  female  influence  appears  in- 
cidentally in  the  sketches  of  high  society  in  those 
two  masterpieces  as  well  as  in  the  eloquent  closing 
passages  of  "  What  then  must  we  do?  "  ( 1886) . 
Having  affirmed  that  "  it  is  women  who  form  pub- 
lic opinion,  and  in  our  day  women  are  particu- 
larly powerful,"  he  finally  draws  a  picture  of  the 
ideal  wife  who  shall  urge  her  husband  and  train 


INTRODUCTION  27 

her  children  to  self-sacrifice.  "  Such  women  rule 
men  and  are  their  guiding  stars.  O  women  — ■ 
mothers!  The  salvation  of  the  world  lies  in  your 
hands!"  In  that  appeal  to  the  mothers  of  the 
world  there  lurks  a  protest  which  in  later  writings 
developed  into  overwhelming  condemnation. 
True,  he  chose  motherhood  for  the  type  of  self- 
sacrificing  love  in  the  treatise  "  On  Life,"  which 
appeared  soon  after  "What  then  must  we  do?" 
but  maternal  love,  as  exemplified  in  his  own  home 
and  elsewhere,  appeared  to  him  as  a  noble  in- 
stinct perversely  directed. 

The  roots  of  maternal  love  are  sunk  deep  in 
conservatism.  The  child's  physical  well-being  is 
the  first  essential  in  the  mother's  eyes  —  the 
growth  of  a  vigorous  body  by  which  a  vigorous 
mind  may  be  fitly  tenanted  —  and  this  form  of 
materialism  which  Tolstoy  as  a  father  accepted, 
Tolstoy  as  idealist  condemned;  while  the  penury 
he  courted  as  a  lightening  of  his  soul's  burden  was 
averted  by  the  strenuous  exertions  of  his  wife. 
So  a  rift  grew  without  blame  attaching  to  either, 
and  Tolstoy  henceforward  wandered  solitary  in 
spirit  through  a  wilderness  of  thought,  seeking 
rest  and  finding  none,  coming  perilously  near  to 
suicide  before  he  reached  haven. 

To  many  it  will  seem  that  the  finest  outcome 
of  that  period  of  mental  groping,  internal  strug- 


28  INTRODUCTION 

gle,  and  contending  with  current  ideas,  lies  in  the 
above-mentioned  "What  then  must  we  do?" 
Certain  it  is  that  no  human  document  ever  re- 
vealed the  soul  of  its  author  with  greater  sincer- 
ity. Not  for  its  practical  suggestions,  but  for  its 
impassioned  humanity,  its  infectious  altruism, 
"  What  then  must  we  do?  "  takes  its  rank  among 
the  world's  few  living  books.  It  marks  that  stage 
of  Tolstoy's  evolution  when  he  made  successive 
essays  in  practical  philanthropy  which  filled  him 
with  discouragement,  yet  were  "  of  use  to  his 
soul  "  in  teaching  him  how  far  below  the  surface 
lie  the  seeds  of  human  misery.  The  slums  of 
Moscow,  crowded  with  beings  sunk  beyond  re- 
demption; the  famine-stricken  plains  of  Samara 
where  disease  and  starvation  reigned,  notwith- 
standing the  stream  of  charity  set  flowing  by  Tol- 
stoy's appeals  and  notwithstanding  his  untiring 
personal  devotion,  strengthened  further  the  con- 
viction, so  constantly  affirmed  in  his  writings,  of 
the  impotence  of  money  to  alleviate  distress. 
Whatever  negations  of  this  dictum  our  own  sys- 
tems of  charitable  organizations  may  appear  to 
offer,  there  can  be  no  question  but  that  in  Russia 
it  held  and  holds  true. 

The  social  condition  of  Russia  is  like  a  tideless 
sea,  whose  sullen  quiescence  is  broken  from  time 
to  time  by  terrific  storms  which  spend  themselves 


INTRODUCTION  29 

in  unavailing  fury.  Reaction  follows  upon  every 
forward  motion,  and  the  advance  made  by  each 
succeeding  generation  is  barely  perceptible. 

But  in  the  period  of  peace  following  upon  the 
close  of  the  Crimean  War  the  soul  of  the  Russian 
people  was  deeply  stirred  by  the  spirit  of  Prog- 
ress, and  hope  rose  high  on  the  accession  of  Alex- 
ander II. 

The  emancipation  of  the  serfs  was  only  one 
among  a  number  of  projected  reforms  which  en- 
gaged men's  minds.  The  national  conscience 
awoke  and  echoed  the  cry  of  the  exiled  patriot 
Herzen,  "Now  or  never!"  Educational  enter- 
prise was  aroused,  and  some  forty  schools  for 
peasant  children  were  started  on  the  model  of 
that  opened  by  Tolstoy  at  Yasnaya  Polyana 
( 1 861 ) .  The  literary  world  throbbed  with  new 
life,  and  a  brilliant  company  of  young  writers 
came  to  the  surface,  counting  among  them  names 
of  European  celebrity,  such  as  Dostoevsky,  Ne- 
krassov,  and  Saltykov.  Unhappily  the  reign  of 
Progress  was  short.  The  bureaucratic  circle  hem- 
ming in  the  Czar  took  alarm,  and  made  haste  to 
secure  their  ascendency  by  fresh  measures  of  op- 
pression. Many  schools  were  closed,  including 
that  of  Tolstoy,  and  the  nascent  liberty  of 
the  Press  was  stifled  by  the  most  rigid  censor- 
ship. 


3o  INTRODUCTION 

In  this  lamentable  manner  the  history  of  Rus- 
sia's internal  misrule  and  disorder  has  continued 
to  repeat  itself  for  the  last  sixty  years,  revolving 
in  the  same  vicious  circle  of  fierce  repression  and 
persecution  and  utter  disregard  of  the  rights  of 
individuals,  followed  by  fierce  reprisals  on  the 
part  of  the  persecuted;  the  voice  of  protest  no 
sooner  raised  than  silenced  in  a  prison  cell  or 
among  Siberian  snow-fields,  yet  rising  again  and 
again  with  inextinguishable  reiteration;  appeals 
for  political  freedom,  for  constitutional  govern- 
ment, for  better  systems  and  wider  dissemination 
of  education,  for  liberty  of  the  Press,  and  for  an 
enlightened  treatment  of  the  masses,  callously  re- 
ceived and  rejected.  The  answer  with  which 
these  appeals  have  been  met  by  the  rulers  of  Rus- 
sia is  only  too  well  known  to  the  civilised  world, 
but  the  obduracy  of  Pharoah  has  called  forth  the 
plagues  of  Egypt.  Despite  the  unrivalled 
agrarian  fertility  of  Russia,  famines  recur  with 
dire  frequency,  with  disease  and  riot  in  their  train, 
while  the  ignominious  termination  of  the  Russo- 
Japanese  war  showed  that  even  the  magnificent 
morale  of  the  Russian  soldier  had  been  under- 
mined and  was  tainted  by  the  rottenness  of  the 
authorities  set  over  him.  What  in  such  circum- 
stances as  these  can  a  handful  of  philanthropists 
achieve,  and  what  avails  alms-giving  or  the  scat- 


INTRODUCTION  31 

tering  of  largesse  to  a  people  on  the  point  of  spir- 
itual dissolution? 

In  these  conditions  Tolstoy's  abhorrence  of 
money,  and  his  assertion  of  its  futility  as  a  pana- 
cea for  human  suffering,  appears  not  merely  com- 
prehensible but  inevitable,  and  his  renunciation 
of  personal  property  the  strictly  logical  outcome 
of  his  conclusions.  The  partition  of  his  estates 
between  his  wife  and  children,  shortly  before  the 
outbreak  of  the  great  famine  in  1892,  served  to 
relieve  his  mind  partially;  and  the  writings  of 
Henry  George,  with  which  he  became  acquainted 
at  this  critical  time,  were  an  additional  incentive 
to  concentrate  his  thoughts  on  the  land  question. 
He  began  by  reading  the  American  propagandist's 
"  Social  Problems,"  which  arrested  his  attention 
by  its  main  principles  and  by  the  clearness  and 
novelty  of  his  arguments.  Deeply  impressed  by 
the  study  of  this  book,  no  sooner  had  he  finished 
it  than  he  possessed  himself  of  its  forerunner, 
"  Progress  and  Poverty,"  in  which  the  essence  of 
George's  revolutionary  doctrines  is  worked  out. 

The  plan  of  land  nationalisation  there  explained 
provided  Tolstoy  with  well  thought-out  and  log- 
ical reasons  for  a  policy  that  was  already  more 
than  sympathetic  to  him.  Here  at  last  was  a 
means  of  ensuring  economic  equality  for  all,  from 
the  largest  landowner  to  the  humblest  peasant  — 


32  INTRODUCTION 

a  practical  suggestion  how  to  reduce  the  inequali- 
ties between  rich  and  poor. 

Henry  George's  ideas  and  methods  are  easy  of 
comprehension.  The  land  was  made  by  God  for 
every  human  creature  that  was  born  into  the 
world,  and  therefore  to  confine  the  ownership  of 
land  to  the  few  is  wrong.  If  a  man  wants  a  piece 
of  land,  he  ought  to  pay  the  rest  of  the  community 
for  the  enjoyment  of  it.  This  payment  or  rent 
should  be  the  only  tax  paid  into  the  Treasury  of 
the  State.  Taxation  on  men's  own  property  (the 
produce  of  their  own  labour)  should  be  done  away 
with,  and  a  rent  graduated  according  to  the  site- 
value  of  the  land  should  be  substituted.  Monop- 
olies would  cease  without  violently  and  unjustly 
disturbing  society  with  confiscation  and  redistribu- 
tion. No  one  would  keep  land  idle  if  he  were 
taxed  according  to  its  value  to  the  community, 
and  not  according  to  the  use  to  which  he  individ- 
ually wished  to  put  it.  A  man  would  then  read- 
ily obtain  possession  of  land,  and  could  turn  it  to 
account  and  develop  it  without  being  taxed  on  his 
own  industry.  All  human  beings  would  thus  be- 
come free  in  their  lives  and  in  their  labour. 
They  would  no  longer  be  forced  to  toil  at  demor- 
alising work  for  low  wages;  they  would  be  inde- 
pendent producers  instead  of  earning  a  living  by 
providing  luxuries  for  the  rich,  who  had  enslaved 


INTRODUCTION  33 

them  by  monopolising  the  land.  The  single  tax 
thus  created  would  ultimately  overthrow  the  pres- 
ent "  civilisation  "  which  is  chiefly  built  up  on 
wage-slavery. 

Tolstoy  gave  his  whole-hearted  adhesion  to 
this  doctrine,  predicting  a  day  of  enlightenment 
when  men  would  no  longer  tolerate  a  form  of 
slavery  which  he  considered  as  revolting  as  that 
which  had  so  recently  been  abolished.  Some  long 
conversations  with  Henry  George,  while  he  was 
on  a  visit  to  Yasnaya  Polyana,  gave  additional 
strength  to  Tolstoy's  conviction  that  in  these 
theories  lay  the  elements  essential  to  the  trans- 
formation and  rejuvenation  of  human  r.ature,  go- 
ing far  towards  the  levelling  of  social  inequalities. 
But  to  inoculate  the  landed  proprietors  of  Russia 
as  a  class  with  those  theories  was  a  task  which 
even  his  genius  could  not  hope  to  accomplish. 

He  recognised  the  necessity  of  proceeding  from 
the  particular  to  the  general,  and  that  the  perfect- 
ing of  human  institutions  was  impossible  without 
a  corresponding  perfection  in  the  individual.  To 
this  end  therefore  the  remainder  of  his  life  was 
dedicated.  He  had  always  held  in  aversion  what 
he  termed  external  epidemic  influences:  he  now 
endeavoured  to  free  himself  not  only  from  all 
current  conventions,  but  from  every  association 
which  he  had  formerly  cherished.     Self-analysis 


34  INTRODUCTION 

and  general  observation  had  taught  him  that  men 
are  sensual  beings,  and  that  sensualism  must  die 
for  want  of  food  if  it  were  not  for  sex  instincts, 
if  it  were  not  for  Art,  and  especially  for  Music. 
This  view  of  life  he  forcibly  expressed  in  the 
"  Kreutzer  Sonata,"  in  which  Woman  and  Music, 
the  two  magnets  of  his  youth,  were  impeached  as 
powers  of  evil.  Already,  in  "  War  and  Peace  " 
and  in  "  Anna  Karenina,"  his  descriptions  of  fe- 
male charms  resembled  catalogues  of  weapons 
against  which  a  man  must  arm  himself  or  perish. 
The  beautiful  Princess  Helena,  with  her  gleam- 
ing shoulders,  her  faultless  white  bosom,  and  her 
eternal  smile  is  evidently  an  object  of  aversion  to 
her  creator;  even  as  the  Countess  Betsy,  with  her 
petty  coquetries  and  devices  for  attracting  atten- 
tion at  the  Opera  and  elsewhere,  is  a  target  for 
his  contempt.  "  Woman  is  a  stumbling-block  in 
a  man's  career,"  remarks  a  philosophical  husband 
in  "  Anna  Karenina."  "  It  is  difficult  to  love  a 
woman  and  do  any  good  work,  and  the  only  way 
to  escape  being  reduced  to  inaction  is  to  marry." 
Even  in  his  correspondence  with  the  Countess 
A.  A.  Tolstoy  this  slighting  tone  prevails.  "  A 
woman  has  but  one  moral  weapon  instead  of  the 
whole  male  arsenal.  That  is  love,  and  only  with 
this  weapon  is  feminine  education  successfully  car- 
ried forward."     Tolstoy,  in  fact,  betrayed  a  touch 


INTRODUCTION  35 

of  orientalism  in  his  attitude  towards  women. 
In  part  no  doubt  as  a  result  of  his  motherless 
youth,  in  part  to  the  fact  that  his  idealism  was 
never  stimulated  by  any  one  woman  as  it  was  by 
individual  men,  his  views  retained  this  colouring 
on  sex  questions  while  they  became  widened  and 
modified  in  almost  every  other  field  of  human 
philosophy.  It  was  only  that,  with  a  revulsion 
of  feeling  not  seldom  experienced  by  earnest 
thinkers,  attraction  was  succeeded  by  a  repulsion 
which  reached  the  high  note  of  exasperation 
when  he  wrote  to  a  man  friend,  "  A  woman  in 
good  health  —  why,  she  is  a  regular  beast  of 
prey!  " 

None  the  less,  he  showed  great  kindness  and 
sympathy  to  the  women  who  sought  his  society, 
appealing  to  him  for  guidance.  One  of  these  (an 
American,  and  herself  a  practical  philanthropist), 
Miss  Jane  Addams,  expressed  with  feeling  her 
sense  of  his  personal  influence.  "  The  glimpse 
of  Tolstoy  has  made  a  profound  impression  on 
me,  not  so  much  by  what  he  said,  as  the  life,  the 
gentleness,  the  soul  of  him.  I  am  sure  you  will 
understand  my  saying  that  I  got  more  of  Tolstoy's 
philosophy  from  our  conversations  than  I  had 
gotten  from  our  books."  (Quoted  by  Aylmer 
Maude  in  his  "  Life  of  Tolstoy.") 

x\s  frequently  happens  in  the  lives  of  reformers, 


36  INTRODUCTION 

Tolstoy  found  himself  more  often  in  affinity  with 
strangers  than  with  his  own  kin.  The  estrange- 
ment of  his  ideals  from  those  of  his  wife  neces- 
sarily affected  their  conjugal  relations,  and  the 
decline  of  mutual  sympathy  inevitably  induced 
physical  alienation.  The  stress  of  mental  anguish 
arising  from  these  conditions  found  vent  in  pages 
of  his  diaries  (much  of  which  I  have  been  per- 
mitted to  read),  pages  containing  matter  too  sa- 
cred and  intimate  to  use.  The  diaries  shed  a 
flood  of  light  on  Tolstoy's  ideas,  motives,  and 
manner  of  life,  and  have  modified  some  of  my 
opinions,  explaining  many  hitherto  obscure  points, 
while  they  have  also  enhanced  my  admiration  for 
the  man.  They  not  only  touch  on  many  delicate 
subjects  —  on  his  relations  to  his  wire  and  family 
—  but  they  also  give  the  true  reasons  for  leaving 
his  home  at  last,  and  explain  why  he  did  not  do 
so  before.  The  time,  it  seems  to  me,  is  not  ripe 
for  disclosures  of  this  nature,  which  so  closely 
concern  the  living. 

Despite  a  strong  rein  of  restraint  his  mental 
distress  permeates  the  touching  letter  of  fare- 
well which  he  wrote  some  sixteen  years  before  his 
death.  He,  however,  shrank  from  acting  upon 
it,  being  unable  to  satisfy  himself  that  it  was  a 
right  step.  This  letter  has  already  appeared  in 
foreign  publications,*  but  it  is  quoted  here  because 

*And  in  Birukov's  short  Life  of  Tolstoy,  1911. 


INTRODUCTION  37 

of  the  light  which  it  throws  on  the  character  and 
disposition  of  the  writer,  the  workings  of  his  mind 
being  of  greater  moment  to  us  than  those  impul- 
sive actions  by  which  he  was  too  often  judged. 

"  I  have  suffered  long,  dear  Sophie,  from  the 
discord  between  my  life  and  my  beliefs. 

"  I  cannot  constrain  you  to  alter  your  life  or 
your  accustomed  ways.  Neither  have  I  had  the 
strength  to  leave  you  ere  this,  for  I  thought  my 
absence  might  deprive  the  little  ones,  still  so 
young,  of  whatever  influence  I  may  have  over 
them,  and  above  all  that  I  should  grieve  you. 
But  I  can  no  longer  live  as  I  have  lived  these  last 
sixteen  years,  sometimes  battling  with  you  and  ir- 
ritating you* sometimes  myself  giving  way  to  the 
influences  and  seductions  to  which  I  am  accus- 
tomed and  which  surround  me.  I  have  now  re- 
solved to  do  what  I  have  long  desired:  to  go  away 
.  .  .  Even  as  the  Hindoos,  at  the  age  of  sixty, 
betake  themselves  to  the  jungle;  even  as  every 
aged  and  religious-minded  man  desires  to  conse- 
crate the  last  years  of  his  life  to  God  and  not  to 
idle  talk,  to  making  jokes,  to  gossiping,  to  lawn- 
tennis;  so  I,  having  reached  the  age  of  seventy, 
long  with  all  my  soul  for  calm  and  solitude,  and  if 
not  perfect  harmony,  at  least  a  cessation  from  this 
horrible  discord  between  my  whole  life  and  my 
conscience. 


38  INTRODUCTION 

"  If  I  had  gone  away  openly  there  would  have 
been  entreaties,  discussions:  I  should  have  wa- 
vered, and  perhaps  failed  to  act  on  my  decision, 
whereas  it  must  be  so.  I  pray  of  you  to  forgive 
me  if  my  action  grieves  you.  And  do  you,  Sophie, 
in  particular  let  me  go,  neither  seeking  me  out, 
nor  bearing  me  ill-will,  nor  blaming  me  .  .  . 
the  fact  that  I  have  left  you  does  not  mean  that  I 
have  cause  of  complaint  against  you  ...  I 
know  you  were  not  able,  you  were  incapable  of 
thinking  and  seeing  as  I  do,  and  therefore  you 
could  not  change  your  life  and  make  sacrifices  to 
that  which  you  did  not  accept.  Besides,  I  do  not 
blame  you;  on  the  contrary,  I  remember  with  love 
and  gratitude  the  thirty-five  long  years  of  our  life 
in  common,  and  especially  the  firsf  half  of  the 
time  when,  with  the  courage  and  devotion  of  your 
maternal  nature,  you  bravely  bore  what  you  re- 
garded as  your  mission.  You  have  given  largely 
of  maternal  love  and  made  some  heavy  sacrifices 
.  .  .  but  during  the  latter  part  of  our  life  to- 
gether, during  the  last  fifteen  years,  our  ways  have 
parted.  I  cannot  think  myself  the  guilty  one;  I 
know  that  if  I  have  changed  it  is  not  owing  to 
you,  or  to  the  world,  but  because  I  could  not  do 
otherwise;  nor  can  I  judge  you  for  not  having 
followed  me,  and  I  thank  you  for  what  you  have 
given  me  and  will  ever  remember  it  with  affection. 


INTRODUCTION  39 

"  Adieu,  my  dear  Sophie,  I  love  you." 

The  personal  isolation  he  crave,d  was  never  to 
be  his;  but  the  isolation  of  spirit  essential  to 
leadership,  whether  of  thought  or  action,  grew 
year  by  year,  so  that  in  his  own  household  he  was 
veritably  "  in  it  but  not  of  it." 

At  times  his  loneliness  weighed  upon  him,  as 
when  he  wrote :  "  You  would  find  it  difficult  to 
imagine  how  isolated  I  am,  to  what  an  extent  my 
true  self  is  despised  by  those  who  surround  me." 
But  he  must,  none  the  less,  have  realised,  as  all 
prophets  and  seers  have  done,  that  solitariness 
of  soul  and  freedom  from  the  petty  complexities 
of  social  life  are  necessary  to  the  mystic  whose 
constant  endeavour  is  to  simplify  and  to  winnow 
the  transient  from  the  eternal. 

Notwithstanding  the  isolation  of  his  inner  life 
he  remained  —  or  it  might  more  accurately  be 
said  he  became  —  the  most  accessible  of  men. 

Appeals  for  guidance  came  to  him  from  all 
parts  of  the  world  —  America,  France,  China, 
Japan  —  while  Yasnaya  Polyana  was  the  frequent 
resort  of  those  needing  advice,  sympathy,  or  prac- 
tical assistance.  None  appealed  to  him  in  vain; 
at  the  same  time,  he  was  exceedingly  chary  of  ex- 
plicit rules  of  conduct.  It  might  be  said  of  Tol- 
stoy that  he  became  a  spiritual  leader  in  spite  of 


40  INTRODUCTION 

himself,  so  averse  was  he  from  assuming  author- 
ity. His  aim  was  ever  to  teach  his  followers 
themselves  to  hear  the  inward  monitory  voice, 
and  to  obey  it  of  their  own  accord.  "  To  know 
the  meaning  of  Life,  you  must  first  know  the 
meaning  of  Love,"  he  would  say;  "  and  then  see 
that  you  do  what  love  bids  you."  His  distrust 
of  "  epidemic  ideas  "  extended  to  religious  com- 
munities and  congregations. 

"  We  must  not  go  to  meet  each  other,  but  go 
each  of  us  to  God.  You  say  it  is  easier  to  go  all 
together?  Why  yes,  to  dig  or  to  mow.  But 
one    can    only    draw    near    to    God    in    isolation 

.  .  I  picture  the  world  to  myself  as  a  vast 
temple,  in  which  the  light  falls  from  above  in  the 
very  centre.  To  meet  together  all  must  go  to- 
wards the  light.  There  we  shall  find  ourselves, 
gathered  from  many  quarters,  united  with  men 
we  did  not  expect  to  see;  therein  is  joy." 

The  humility  which  had  so  completely  sup- 
planted his  youthful  arrogance,  and  which  made 
him  shrink  from  impelling  others  to  follow  in  his 
steps,  endued  him  also  with  the  teachableness  of 
a  child  towards  those  whom  he  accepted  as  his 
spiritual  mentors.  It  was  a  peasant  noncom- 
formist  writer,  Soutaev,  who  by  conversing  with 


INTRODUCTION  41 

him  on  the  revelations  of  the  Gospels  helped  him 
to  regain  his  childhood's  faith,  and  incidentally 
brought  him  into  closer  relations  with  religious, 
but  otherwise  untaught,  men  of  the  people.  He 
saw  how  instead  of  railing  against  fate  after  the 
manner  of  their  social  superiors,  they  endured 
sickness  and  misfortune  with  a  calm  confidence 
that  all  was  by  the  will  of  God,  as  it  must  be  and 
should  be.  From  his  peasant  teachers  he  drew 
the  watchwords  Faith,  Love,  and  Labour,  and  by 
their  light  he  established  that  concord  in  his  own 
life  without  which  the  concord  of  the  universe  re- 
mains impossible  to  realise.  The  process  of  in- 
ward struggle  —  told  with  unsparing  truth  in 
"Confession"  —  is  finely  painted  in  "Father 
Serge,"  whose  life  story  points  to  the  conclusion 
at  which  Tolstoy  ultimately  arrived,  namely,  that 
not  in  withdrawal  from  the  common  trials  and 
temptations  of  men,  but  in  sharing  them,  lies  our 
best  fulfilment  of  our  duty  towards  mankind  and 
towards  God.  Tolstoy  gave  practical  effect  to 
this  principle,  and  to  this  long-felt  desire  to  be  of 
use  to  the  poor  of  the  country,  by  editing  and  pub- 
lishing,  aided  by  his   friend  Chertkov,*  popular 

*  In  Russia  and  out  of  it  Mr.  Chertkov  has  been  the  subject  of 
violent  attack.  Many  of  the  misunderstandings  of  Tolstoy's  later 
years  have  also  been  attributed  by  critics,  and  by  those  who  hate 
or  belittle  his  ideas,  to  the  influence  of  this  friend.  These  at- 
tacks are  very  regrettable  and  require  a  word  of  protests     From 


42  INTRODUCTION 

tales,  suited  to  the  means  and  intelligence  of  the 
humblest  peasant.  The  undertaking  was  initiated 
in  1885,  and  continued  for  many  years  to  occupy 
much  of  Tolstoy's  time  and  energies.  He  threw 
himself  with  ardour  into  his  editorial  duties;  read- 
ing and  correcting  manuscripts,  returning  them 
sometimes  to  the  authors  with  advice  as  to  their 
reconstruction,  and  making  translations  from  for- 
eign works  —  all  this  in  addition  to  his  own  orig- 
inal contributions,  in  which  he  carried  out  the 
principle  which  he  constantly  laid  down  for  his 
collaborators,  that  literary  graces  must  be  set 
aside,  and  that  the  mental  calibre  of  those  for 
whom  the  books  were  primarily  intended  must 
be  constantly  borne  in  mind.  He  attained  a 
splendid  fulfilment  of  his  own  theories,  employing 
the  moujik's  expressive  vernacular  in  portraying 
his  homely  wisdom,  religious  faith,  and  goodness 
of  nature.  Sometimes  the  prevailing  simplicity 
of  style  and  motive  is  tinged  with  a  vague  colour- 
ing of  oriental  legend,  but  the  personal  accent  is 
marked  throughout.     No  similar  achievement  in 

the  beginning  Mr.  Chertkov  has  striven  to  spread  the  ideas  of 
Tolstoy,  and  has  won  neither  glory  nor  money  from  his  faithful 
and  single-hearted  devotion.  He  has  carried  on  his  work  with  a 
rare  love  and  sympathy  in  spite  of  difficulties.  No  one  appre- 
ciated or  valued  his  friendship  and  self-sacrifice  more  than 
Tolstoy  himself,  who  was  firmly  attached  to  him  from  the  date 
of  his  first  meeting,  consulting  him  and  confiding  in  him  at  every 
moment,  even  during  Mr.  Chertkov's  long  exile. 


INTRODUCTION  43 

modern  literature  has  awakened  so  universal  a 
sense  of  sympathy  and  admiration,  perhaps  be- 
cause none  has  been  so  entirely  a  labour  of  love. 

The  series  of  educational  primers  which  Tol- 
stoy prepared  and  published  concurrently  with  the 
"  Popular  Tales  "  have  had  an  equally  large, 
though  exclusively  Russian,  circulation,  being  ad- 
mirably suited  to  their  purpose  —  that  of  teach- 
ing young  children  the  rudiments  of  history, 
geography,  and  science.  Little  leisure  remained 
for  the  service  of  Art. 

The  history  of  Tolstoy  as  a  man  of  letters 
forms  a  separate  page  of  his  biography,  and  one 
into  which  it  is  not  possible  to  enter  in  the  brief 
compass  of  this  introduction.  It  requires,  how- 
ever, a  passing  allusion.  Tolstoy  even  in  his  early 
days  never  seems  to  have  approached  near  to  that 
manner  of  life  which  the  literary  man  leads: 
neither  to  have  shut  himself  up  in  his  study,  nor 
to  have  barred  the  entrance  to  disturbing  friends. 
On  the  one  hand,  he  was  fond  of  society,  and  dur- 
ing his  brief  residence  in  St.  Petersburg  was  never 
so  engrossed  in  authorship  as  to  forego  the  pleas- 
ure of  a  ball  or  evening  entertainment.  Little 
wonder,  when  one  looks  back  at  the  brilliant  young 
officer  surrounded  and  petted  by  the  great  hos- 
tesses of  Russia.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  no 
devotee  at  the  literary  altar.     No  patron  of  lit- 


44  INTRODUCTION 

erature  could  claim  him  as  his  constant  visitor; 
no  inner  circle  of  men  of  letters  monopolised  his 
idle  hours.  Afterwards,  when  he  left  the  capital 
and  settled  in  the  country,  he  was  almost  entirely 
cut  off  from  the  association  of  literary  men,  and 
never  seems  to  have  sought  their  companionship. 
Nevertheless,  he  had  all  through  his  life  many  fast 
friends,  among  them  such  as  the  poet  Fet,  the  nov- 
elist Chekhov,  and  the  great  Russian  librarian 
Stassov,  who  often  came  to  him.  These  visits 
always  gave  him  pleasure.  The  discussions, 
whether  on  the  literary  movements  of  the  day  or 
on  the  merits  of  Goethe  or  the  humour  of  Gogol, 
were  welcome  interruptions  to  his  ever-absorbing 
metaphysical  studies.  In  later  life,  also,  though 
never  in  touch  with  the  rising  generation  of 
authors,  we  find  him  corresponding  with  them, 
criticising  their  style  and  subject  matter.  When 
Andreev,  the  most  modern  of  all  modern  Russian 
writers,  came  to  pay  his  respects  to  Tolstoy  some 
months  before  his  death,  he  was  received  with 
cordiality,  although  Tolstoy,  as  he  expressed  him- 
self afterwards,  felt  that  there  was  a  great  gulf 
fixed  between  them. 

Literature,  as  literature,  had  lost  its  charm  for 
him.  "  You  are  perfectly  right,"  he  writes  to  a 
friend;  "  I  care  only  for  the  idea,  and  I  pay  no 
attention  to  my  style."     The  idea  was  the  impor- 


INTRODUCTION  45 

tant  thing  to  Tolstoy  in  everything  that  he  read 
or  wrote.  When  his  attention  was  drawn  to  an 
illuminating  essay  on  the  poet  Lermontov  he  was 
pleased  with  it,  not  because  it  demonstrated  Ler- 
montov's  position  in  the  literary  history  of  Rus- 
sia, but  because  it  pointed  out  the  moral  aims 
which  underlay  the  wild  Byronism  of  his  works. 
He  reproached  the  novelist  Leskov,  who  had  sent 
him  his  latest  novel,  for  the  "  exuberance  "  of  his 
flowers  of  speech  and  for  his  florid  sentences  — 
beautiful  in  their  way,  he  says,  but  inexpedient 
and  unnecessary.  He  even  counselled  the  younger 
generation  to  give  up  poetry  as  a  form  of  expres- 
sion and  to  use  prose  instead.  Poetry,  he  main- 
tained, was  always  artificial  and  obscure.  His 
attitude  towards  the  art  of  writing  remained  to 
the  end  one  of  hostility.  Whenever  he  caught 
himself  working  for  art  he  was  wont  to  reproach 
himself,  and  his  diaries  contain  many  recrimina- 
tions against  his  own  weakness  in  yielding  to  this 
besetting  temptation.  Yet  to  these  very  lapses 
we  are  indebted  for  this  collection  of  fragments. 

The  greater  number  of  stories  and  plays  con- 
tained in  these  volumes  date  from  the  years  fol- 
lowing upon  Tolstoy's  pedagogic  activity.  Long 
intervals,  however,  elapsed  in  most  cases  between 
the  original  synopsis  and  the  final  touches.  Thus 
"  Father  Serge,"  of  which  he  sketched  the  outline 


46  INTRODUCTION 

to  Mr.  Chertkov  in  1890,  was  so  often  put  aside 
to  make  way  for  purely  ethical  writings  that  not 
till  1898  does  the  entry  occur  in  his  diary,  "To- 
day, quite  unexpectedly,  I  finished  Serge."  A 
year  previously  a  dramatic  incident  had  come  to 
his  knowledge,  which  he  elaborated  in  the  play 
entitled  "  The  Man  who  was  dead."  It  ran  on 
the  lines  familiarised  by  Enoch  Arden  and  similar 
stories,  of  a  wife  deserted  by  her  husband  and 
supported  in  his  absence  by  a  benefactor,  whom 
she  subsequently  marries.  In  this  instance  the 
supposed  dead  man  was  suddenly  resuscitated  as 
the  result  of  his  own  admissions  in  his  cups,  the 
wife  and  her  second  husband  being  consequently 
arrested  and  condemned  to  a  term  of  imprison- 
ment. Tolstoy  seriously  attacked  the  subject 
during  the  summer  of  1900,  and  having  brought 
it  within  a  measurable  distance  of  completion  in  a 
shorter  time  than  was  usual  with  him,  submitted 
it  to  the  judgment  of  a  circle  of  friends.  The 
drama  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  privileged 
few  who  read  it,  and  some  mention  of  it  appeared 
in  the  newspapers. 

Shortly  afterwards  a  young  man  came  to  see 
Tolstoy  in  private.  He  begged  him  to  refrain 
from  publishing  "  The  Man  who  was  dead,"  as  it 
was  the  history  of  his  mother's  life,  and  would  dis- 
tress   her    gravely,    besides    possibly    occasioning 


INTRODUCTION  47 

further  police  intervention.  Tolstoy  promptly 
consented,  and  the  play  remained,  as  it  now  ap- 
pears, in  an  unfinished  condition.  He  had  al- 
ready felt  doubtful  whether  "  it  was  a  thing  God 
would  approve,"  Art  for  Art's  sake  having  in  his 
eyes  no  right  to  existence.  For  this  reason  a 
didactic  tendency  is  increasingly  evident  in  these 
later  stories.  "  After  the  Ball  "  gives  a  painful 
picture  of  Russian  military  cruelty;  "  The  Forged 
Coupon "  traces  the  cancerous  growth  of  evil, 
and  demonstrates  with  dramatic  force  the  cumu- 
lative misery  resulting  from  one  apparently  trivial 
act  of  wrongdoing. 

Of  the  three  plays  included  in  these  volumes, 
"  The  Light  that  shines  in  Darkness  "  has  a  spe- 
cial claim  to  our  attention  as  an  example  of  auto- 
biography in  the  guise  of  drama.  It  is  a  speci- 
men of  Tolstoy's  gift  of  seeing  himself  as  others 
saw  him,  and  viewing  a  question  in  all  its  bear- 
ings. It  presents  not  actions  but  ideas,  giving 
with  entire  impartiality  the  opinions  of  his  home 
circle,  of  his  friends,  of  the  Church  and  of  the 
State,  in  regard  to  his  altruistic  propaganda  and 
to  the  anarchism  of  which  he  has  been  accused. 
The  scene  of  the  renunciation  of  the  estates  of  the 
hero  may  be  taken  as  a  literal  version  of  what 
actually  took  place  in  regard  to  Tolstoy  himself, 
while  the  dialogues  by  which  the  piece  is  carried 


48  INTRODUCTION 

forward  are  more  like  verbatim  records  than  im- 
aginary conversations. 

This  play  was,  in  addition,  a  medium  by  which 
Tolstoy  emphasised  his  abhorrence  of  military 
service,  and  probably  for  this  reason  its  produc- 
tion is  absolutely  forbidden  in  Russia.  A  word 
may  be  said  here  on  Tolstoy's  so-called  Anarchy, 
a  term  admitting  of  grave  misconstruction.  In 
that  he  denied  the  benefit  of  existing  governments 
to  the  people  over  whom  they  ruled,  and  in  that 
he  stigmatised  standing  armies  as  "  collections  of 
disciplined  murderers,"  Tolstoy  was  an  Anarchist; 
but  in  that  he  reprobated  the  methods  of  violence, 
no  matter  how  righteous  the  cause  at  stake,  and 
upheld  by  word  and  deed  the  gospel  of  Love  and 
submission,  he  cannot  be  judged  guilty  of  Anar- 
chism in  its  full  significance.  He  could  not,  how- 
ever, suppress  the  sympathy  which  he  felt  with 
those  whose  resistance  to  oppression  brought  them 
into  deadly  conflict  with  autocracy.  He  found 
in  the  Caucasian  chieftain,  Hadji  Murat,  a  sub- 
ject full  of  human  interest  and  dramatic  possibili- 
ties; and  though  some  eight  years  passed  before 
he  corrected  the  manuscript  for  the  last  time  (in 
1903),  it  is  evident  from  the  numbers  of  entries 
in  his  diary  that  it  had  greatly  occupied  his 
thoughts  so  far  back  even  as  the  period  which  he 
spent  in  Tiflis  prior  to  the  Crimean  war.     It  was 


INTRODUCTION  49 

then  that  the  final  subjugation  of  the  Caucasus 
took  place,  and  Shamil  and  his  devoted  band 
made  their  last  struggle  for  freedom.  After  the 
lapse  of  half  a  century,  Tolstoy  gave  vent  in 
"  Hadji  Murat "  to  the  resentment  which  the 
military  despotism  of  Nicholas  I.  had  roused  in 
his  sensitive  and  fearless  spirit. 

Courage  was  the  dominant  note  in  Tolstoy's 
character,  and  none  have  excelled  him  in  portray- 
ing brave  men.  His  own  fearlessness  was  of  the 
rarest,  in  that  it  was  both  physical  and  moral. 
The  mettle  tried  and  proved  at  Sebastopol  sus- 
tained him  when  he  had  drawn  on  himself  the 
bitter  animosity  of  "  Holy  Synod  "  and  the  relent- 
less anger  of  Czardom.  In  spite  of  his  non- 
resistance  doctrine,  Tolstoy's  courage  was  not  of 
the  passive  order.  It  was  his  natural  bent  to 
rouse  his  foes  to  combat,  rather  than  wait  for 
their  attack,  to  put  on  the  defensive  every  false- 
hood and  every  wrong  of  which  he  was  cognisant. 
Truth  in  himself  and  in  others  was  what  he  most 
desired,  and  that  to  which  he  strove  at  all  costs 
to  attain.  He  was  his  own  severest  critic,  weigh- 
ing his  own  actions,  analysing  his  own  thoughts, 
and  baring  himself  to  the  eyes  of  the  world  with 
unflinching  candour.  Greatest  of  autobiogra- 
phers,  he  extenuates  nothing:  you  see  the  whole 
man  with  his  worst  faults  and  best  qualities;  weak- 


So  INTRODUCTION 

nesses  accentuated  by  the  energy  with  which  they 
are  charactered,  apparent  waste  of  mental  forces 
bent  on  solving  the  insoluble,  inherited  tastes  and 
prejudices,  altruistic  impulses  and  virile  passions, 
egoism  and  idealism,  all  strangely  mingled  and 
continually  warring  against  each  other,  until  from 
the  death-throes  of  spiritual  conflict  issued  a  new 
birth  and  a  new  life.  In  the  ancient  Scripture 
"  God  is  love  "  Tolstoy  discerned  fresh  meaning, 
and  strove  with  superhuman  energy  to  bring  home 
that  meaning  to  the  world  at  large.  His  doctrine 
in  fact  appears  less  as  a  new  light  in  the  darkness 
than  as  a  revival  of  the  pure  flame  of  "  the  Mystic 
of  the  Galilean  hills,"  whose  teaching  he  accepted 
while  denying  His  divinity. 

Of  Tolstoy's  beliefs  in  regard  to  the  Christian 
religion  it  may  be  said  that  with  advancing  years 
he  became  more  and  more  disposed  to  regard 
religious  truth  as  one  continuous  stream  of  spirit- 
ual thought  flowing  through  the  ages  of  man's 
history,  emanating  principally  from  the  inspired 
prophets  and  seers  of  Israel,  India,  and  China. 
Finally,  in  1909,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  he  summed 
up  his  conviction  in  the  following  words: — 

"  For  me  the  doctrine  of  Jesus  is  simply  one  of 
those  beautiful  religious  doctrines  which  we  have 
received    from    Egyptian,    Jewish,    Hindoo,    Chi- 


INTRODUCTION  51 

nese,  and  Greek  antiquity.  The  two  great  prin- 
ciples of  Jesus:  love  of  God  —  in  a  word  absolute 
perfection  —  and  love  of  one's  neighbour,  that  is 
to  say,  love  of  all  men  without  distinction,  have 
been  preached  by  all  the  sages  of  the  world  — 
Krishna,  Buddha,  Lao-tse,  Confucius,  Socrates, 
Plato,  Epictetus,  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  among 
the  moderns,  Rousseau,  Pascal,  Kant,  Emerson, 
Channing,  and  many  others.  Religious  and 
moral  truth  is  everywhere  and  always  the  same.  I 
have  no  predilection  whatever  for  Christianity. 
If  I  have  been  particularly  interested  in  the  doc- 
trine of  Jesus  it  is,  firstly,  because  I  was  born  in 
that  religion  and  have  lived  among  Christians; 
secondly,  because  I  have  found  a  great  spiritual 
joy  in  freeing  the  doctrine  in  its  purity  from 
the  astounding  falsifications  wrought  by  the 
Churches." 

Tolstoy's  life-work  was  indeed  a  splendid  striv- 
ing to  free  truth  from  falsehood,  to  simplify  the 
complexities  of  civilisation  and  demonstrate  their 
futility.  Realists  as  gifted  have  come  and  gone 
and  left  but  little  trace.  It  is  conceivable  that 
the  great  trilogy  of  "  Anna  Karenina,"  "  War  and 
Peace,"  and  "  Resurrection  "  may  one  day  be  for- 
gotten, but  Tolstoy's  teaching  stands  on  firmer 
foundations,   and  has  stirred  the  hearts  of  thou- 


52  INTRODUCTION 

sands  who  are  indifferent  to  the  finest  display  of 
psychic  analysis.  He  has  taught  men  to  venture 
beyond  the  limits  set  by  reason,  to  rise  above  the 
actual  and  to  find  the  meaning  of  life  in  love.  It 
was  his  mission  to  probe  our  moral  ulcers  to  the 
roots  and  to  raise  moribund  ideals  from  the  dust, 
breathing  his  own  vitality  into  them,  till  they  rose 
before  our  eyes  as  living  aspirations.  The  spir- 
itual joy  of  which  he  wrote  was  no  rhetorical 
hyperbole;  it  was  manifest  in  the  man  himself, 
and  was  the  fount  of  the  lofty  idealism  which 
made  him  not  only  "  the  Conscience  of  Russia  " 
but  of  the  civilised  world. 

Idealism  is  one  of  those  large  abstractions 
which  are  invested  by  various  minds  with  varying 
shades  of  meaning,  and  which  find  expression  in 
an  infinite  number  of  forms.  Ideals  bred  and  fos- 
tered in  the  heart  of  man  receive  at  birth  an  im- 
press from  the  life  that  engenders  them,  and  when 
that  life  is  tempest-tossed  the  thought  that  springs 
from  it  must  bear  a  birth-mark  of  the  storm. 
That  birth-mark  is  stamped  on  all  Tolstoy's  utter- 
ances, the  simplest  and  the  most  metaphysical. 
But  though  he  did  not  pass  scathless  through  the 
purging  fires,  nor  escape  with  eyes  undimmed  from 
the  mystic  light  which  flooded  his  soul,  his  ideal 
is  not  thereby  invalidated.     It  was,  he  admitted, 


INTRODUCTION  53 

unattainable,  but  none  the  less  a  state  of  perfec- 
tion to  which  we  must  continually  aspire,  un- 
daunted by  partial  failure. 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong  in  not  living  up  to 
the  ideal  which  you  have  made  for  yourself,  but 
what  is  wrong  is,  if  on  looking  back,  you  cannot 
see  that  you  have  made  the  least  step  nearer  to 
your  ideal." 

How  far  Tolstoy's  doctrines  may  influence  suc- 
ceeding generations  it  is  impossible  to  foretell; 
but  when  time  has  extinguished  what  is  merely 
personal  or  racial,  the  divine  spark  which  he  re- 
ceived from  his  great  spiritual  forerunners  in  other 
times  and  countries  will  undoubtedly  be  found 
alight.  His  universality  enabled  him  to  unite 
himself  closely  with  them  in  mental  sympathy; 
sometimes  so  closely,  as  in  the  case  of  J.  J.  Rous- 
seau, as  to  raise  analogies  and  comparisons  de- 
signed to  show  that  he  merely  followed  in  a  well- 
worn  pathway.  Yet  the  similarity  of  Tolstoy's 
ideas  to  those  of  the  author  of  the  "  Contrat  So- 
cial "  hardly  goes  beyond  a  mutual  distrust  of 
Art  and  Science  as  aids  to  human  happiness  and 
virtue,  and  a  desire  to  establish  among  mankind 
a  true  sense  of  brotherhood.     For  the  rest,  the 


54  INTRODUCTION 

appeals  which  they  individually  made  to  Human- 
ity were  as  dissimilar  as  the  currents  of  their  lives, 
and  equally  dissimilar  in  effect. 

The  magic  flute  of  Rousseau's  eloquence 
breathed  fanaticism  into  his  disciples,  and  a  desire 
to  mass  themselves  against  the  foes  of  liberty. 
Tolstoy's  trumpet-call  sounds  a  deeper  note.  It 
pierces  the  heart,  summoning  each  man  to  the  in- 
quisition of  his  own  conscience,  and  to  justify  his 
existence  by  labour,  that  he  may  thereafter  sleep 
the  sleep  of  peace. 

The  exaltation  which  he  awakens  owes  nothing 
to  rhythmical  language  nor  to  subtle  interpreta- 
tions of  sensuous  emotion;  it  proceeds  from  a  per- 
ception of  eternal  truth,  the  truth  that  has  love, 
faith,  courage,  and  self-sacrifice  for  the  corner- 
stones of  its  enduring  edifice. 

C.  HAGBERG  WRIGHT. 


Note. — Owing  to  circumstances  entirely  outside  the  control  of 
the  editor  some  of  these  translations  have  been  done  in  haste  and 
there  has  not  been  sufficient  time  for  revision. 

The  translators  were  chosen  by  an  agent  of  the  executor  and 
not  by   the  editor. 


List  of  Posthumous  Works,  giving  Date 
when  each  was  finished  or  length  of 
Time  occupied  in  Writing. 

Father  Serge.      1890-98. 

Introduction  to  the  History  of  a  Mother.      1894. 

Memoirs  of  a  Mother.      1894. 

The  Young  Czar.      1894. 

Diary  of  a  Lunatic.      1896. 

Hadji  Murat.      1896- 1904. 

The  Light  that  shines  in  Darkness.      1 898-1 901. 

The  Man  who  was  dead.      1900. 

After  the  Ball.      1903. 

The  Forged  Coupon.      1904. 

Alexis.      1905. 

Diary  of  Alexander  I.      1905. 

The  Dream.      1906. 

Father  Vassily.      1906. 

There  are  no  Guilty  People.      1909. 

The  Wisdom  of  Children.      1909. 

The  Cause  of  it  All.      19 10. 

Chodynko.      19 10. 

Two   Travellers.     Date  uncertain. 


THE    FORGED    COUPON 


THE    FORGED    COUPON 

PART   FIRST 

I 

Fedor  Mihailovich  Smokovnikov,  the  presi- 
dent of  the  local  Income  Tax  Department,  a  man 
of  unswerving  honesty — and  proud  of  it,  too  — 
a  gloomy  Liberal,  a  free-thinker,  and  an  enemy 
to  every  manifestation  of  religious  feeling,  which 
he  thought  a  relic  of  superstition,  came  home  from 
his  office  feeling  very  much  annoyed.  The  Gov- 
ernor of  the  province  had  sent  him  an  extraordi- 
narily stupid  minute,  almost  assuming  that  his 
dealings  had  been  dishonest. 

Fedor  Mihailovich  felt  embittered,  and  wrote 
at  once  a  sharp  answer.  On  his  return  home 
everything  seemed  to  go  contrary  to  his  wishes. 

It  was  five  minutes  to  five,  and  he  expected  the 
dinner  to  be  served  at  once,  but  he  was  told  it  was 
not  ready.  He  banged  the  door  and  went  to  his 
study.  Somebody  knocked  at  the  door.  "  Who 
the  devil  is  that?  "  he  thought;  and  shouted,  — 
59 


60  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"Who  is  there?  " 

The  door  opened  and  a  boy  of  fifteen  came  in, 
the  son  of  Fedor  Mihailovich,  a  pupil  of  the  fifth 
class  of  the  local  school. 

"  What  do  you  want?  ;* 

"  It  is  the  first  of  the  month  to-day,  father." 

"  Well !      You  want  your  money?  " 

It  had  been  arranged  that  the  father  should  pay 
his  son  a  monthly  allowance  of  three  roubles  as 
pocket  money.  Fedor  Mihailovich  frowned,  took 
out  of  his  pocket-book  a  coupon  of  two  roubles 
fifty  kopeks  which  he  found  among  the  bank- 
notes, and  added  to  it  fifty  kopeks  in  silver  out  of 
the  loose  change  in  his  purse.  The  boy  kept  si- 
lent, and  did  not  take  the  money  his  father  prof- 
fered him. 

"  Father,  please  give  me  some  more  in  ad- 
vance." 

"What?" 

"  I  would  not  ask  for  it,  but  I  have  borrowed  a 
small  sum  from  a  friend,  and  promised  upon  my 
word  of  honour  to  pay  it  off.  My  honour  is  dear 
to  me,  and  that  is  why  I  want  another  three  rou- 
bles. I  don't  like  asking  you;  but,  please,  father, 
give  me  another  three  roubles." 

"  I  have  told  you  —  " 

"  I  know,  father,  but  just  for  once." 

"  You  have  an  allowance  of  three  roubles  and 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  61 

you  ought  to  be  content.  I  had  not  fifty  kopeks 
when  I  was  your  age." 

"  Now,  all  my  comrades  have  much  more. 
Petrov  and  Ivanitsky  have  fifty  roubles  a  month." 

"And  I  tell  you  that  if  you  behave  like  them 
you  will  be  a  scoundrel.     Mind  that." 

"What  is  there  to  mind?  You  never  under- 
stand my  position.  I  shall  be  disgraced  if  I  don't 
pay  my  debt.  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  speak 
as  you  do." 

"Be  off,  you  silly  boy!      Be  off!" 

Fedor  Mihailovich  jumped  from  his  seat  and 
pounced  upon  his  son.  "Be  off,  I  say!"  he 
shouted.  "  You  deserve  a  good  thrashing,  all 
you  boys!  " 

His  son  was  at  once  frightened  and  embittered. 
The  bitterness  was  even  greater  than  the  fright. 
With  his  head  bent  down  he  hastily  turned  to  the 
door.  Fedor  Mihailovich  did  not  intend  to  strike 
him,  but  he  was  glad  to  vent  his  wrath,  and  went 
on  shouting  and  abusing  the  boy  till  he  had  closed 
the  door. 

When  the  maid  came  in  to  announce  that  din- 
ner was  ready,  Fedor  Mihailovich  rose. 

"  At  last!  "  he  said.  "  I  don't  feel  hungry  any 
longer." 

He  went  to  the  dining-room  with  a  sullen  face. 
At  table  his  wife  made  some  remark,  but  he  gave 


62  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

her  such  a  short  and  angry  answer  that  she  ab- 
stained from  further  speech.  The  son  also  did 
not  lift  his  eyes  from  his  plate,  and  was  silent  all 
the  time.  The  trio  finished  their  dinner  in  si- 
lence, rose  from  the  table  and  separated,  without 
a  word. 

After  dinner  the  boy  went  to  his  room,  took  the 
coupon  and  the  change  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
threw  the  money  on  the  table.  After  that  he 
took  off  his  uniform  and  put  on  a  jacket. 

He  sat  down  to  work,  and  began  to  study  Latin 
grammar  out  of  a  dog's-eared  book.  After  a 
while  he  rose,  closed  and  bolted  the  door,  shifted 
the  money  into  a  drawer,  took  out  some  ciga- 
rette papers,  rolled  one  up,  stuffed  it  with  cotton 
wool,  and  began  to  smoke. 

He  spent  nearly  two  hours  over  his  grammar 
and  writing  books  without  understanding  a  word 
of  what  he  saw  before  him;  then  he  rose  and  be- 
gan to  stamp  up  and  down  the  room,  trying  to 
recollect  all  that  his  father  had  said  to  him.  All 
the  abuse  showered  upon  him,  and  worst  of  all 
his  father's  angry  face,  were  as  fresh  in  his  mem- 
ory as  if  he  saw  and  heard  them  all  over  again. 
"Silly  boy!  You  ought  to  get  a  good  thrash- 
ing! "  And  the  more  he  thought  of  it  the  angrier 
he  grew.  He  remembered  also  how  his  father 
said:  "  I  see  what  a  scoundrel  you  will  turn  out. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  63 

I  know  you  will.  You  are  sure  to  become  a  cheat, 
if  you  go  on  like  that.  .  .  ."  He  had  cer- 
tainly forgotten  how  he  felt  when  he  was  young! 
"What  crime  have  I  committed,  I  wonder?  I 
wanted  to  go  to  the  theatre,  and  having  no  money 
borrowed  some  from  Petia  Grouchetsky.  Was 
that  so  very  wicked  of  me?  Another  father 
would  have  been  sorry  for  me;  would  have  asked 
how  it  all  happened;  whereas  he  just  called  me 
names.  He  never  thinks  of  anything  but  himself. 
When  it  is  he  who  has  not  got  something  he  wants 
—  that  is  a  different  matter!  Then  all  the  house 
is  upset  by  his  shouts.  And  I  —  I  am  a  scoundrel, 
a  cheat,  he  says.  No,  I  don't  love  him,  although 
he  is  my  father.  It  may  be  wrong,  but  I  hate 
him." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  The  servant 
brought  a  letter  —  a  message  from  his  friend. 
"  They  want  an  answer,"  said  the  servant. 

The  letter  ran  as  follows:  "  I  ^sk  you  now  for 
the  third  time  to  pay  me  back  the  six  roubles  you 
have  borrowed;  you  are  trying  to  avoid  me. 
That  is  not  the  way  an  honest  man  ought  to  be- 
have. Will  you  please  send  the  amount  by  my 
messenger?  I  am  myself  in  a  frightful  fix.  Can 
you  not  get  the  money  somewhere?  —  Yours,  ac- 
cording to  whether  you  send  the  money  or  not, 
with  scorn,  or  love,  Grouchetskv." 


64  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"There  we  have  it!  Such  a  pig!  Could  he 
not  wait  a  while?      I  will  have  another  try." 

Mitia  went  to  his  mother.  This  was  his  last 
hope.  His  mother  was  very  kind,  and  hardly 
ever  refused  him  anything.  She  would  probably 
have  helped  him  this  time  also  out  of  his  trouble, 
but  she  was  in  great  anxiety:  her  younger  child, 
Petia,  a  boy  of  two,  had  fallen  ill.  She  got  angry 
with  Mitia  for  rushing  so  noisily  into  the  nursery, 
and  refused  him  almost  without  listening  to  what 
he  had  to  say.  Mitia  muttered  something  to  him- 
self and  turned  to  go.  The  mother  felt  sorry 
for  him.  "  Wait,  Mitia,"  she  said;  "  I  have  not 
got  the  money  you  want  now,  but  I  will  get  it  for 
you  to-morrow." 

But  Mitia  was  still  raging  against  his  father. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  having  it  to-morrow,  when 
I  want  it  to-day?  I  am  going  to  see  a  friend. 
That  is  all  I  have  got  to  say." 

He    went    o^it,     banging    the     door. 
"  Nothing  else  is  left  to  me.     He  will  tell  me  how 
to    pawn    my    watch,"    he   thought,    touching    his 
watch  in  his  pocket. 

Mitia  went  to  his  room,  took  the  coupon  and 
the  watch  from  the  drawer,  put  on  his  coat,  and 
went  to  Mahin. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  65 


II 

Mahin  was  his  schoolfellow,  his  senior,  a  grown- 
up young  man  with  a  moustache.  He  gambled, 
had  a  large  feminine  acquaintance,  and  always  had 
ready  cash.  He  lived  with  his  aunt.  Mitia 
quite  realised  that  Mahin  was  not  a  respectable 
fellow,  but  when  he  was  in  his  company  he  could 
not  help  doing  what  he  wished.  Mahin  was  in 
when  Mitia  called,  and  was  just  preparing  to  go 
to  the  theatre.  His  untidy  room  smelt  of  scented 
soap  and  eau-de-Cologne. 

"That's  awful,  old  chap,"  said  Mahin,  when 
Mitia  telling  him  about  his  troubles,  showed  the 
coupon  and  the  fifty  kopeks,  and  added  that  he 
wanted  nine  roubles  more.  "  We  might,  of 
course,  go  and  pawn  your  watch.  But  we  might 
do  something  far  better."  And  Mahin  winked 
an  eye. 

"What's  that?" 

"  Something  quite  simple."  Mahin  took  the 
coupon  in  his  hand.  "  Put  one  before  the  2.50 
and  it  will  be  12.50." 

"  But  do  such  coupons  exist?  " 

"Why,  certainly;  the  thousand  roubles  notes 
have  coupons  of  12.50.  I  have  cashed  one  in 
the  same  way." 


66  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"  You  don't  say  so?  " 

"Well,  yes  or  no?"  asked  Mahin,  taking  the 
pen  and  smoothing  the  coupon  with  the  fingers  of 
his  left  hand. 

"  But  it  is  wrong." 

"  Nonsense !  " 

"  Nonsense,  indeed,"  thought  Mitia,  and  again 
his  father's  hard  words  came  back  to  his  memory. 
"Scoundrel!  As  you  called  me  that,  I  might  as 
well  be  it."  He  looked  into  Mahin's  face. 
Mahin  looked  at  him,  smiling  with  perfect  ease. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"  All  right.      I  don't  mind." 

Mahin  carefully  wrote  the  unit  in  front  of  2.50. 

"  Now  let  us  go  to  the  shop  across  the  road; 
they  sell  photographers'  materials  there.  I  just 
happen  to  want  a  frame  —  for  this  young  person 
here."  He  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  photograph 
of  a  young  lady  with  large  eyes,  luxuriant  hair, 
and  an  uncommonly  well-developed  bust. 

"  Is  she  not  sweet?     Eh?  " 

"  Yes,  yes     .     .     .     of  course     .     .     ." 

"  Well,  you  see. —  But  let  us  go." 

Mahin  took  his  coat,  and  they  left  the  house. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  67 


III 

The  two  boys,  having  rung  the  door-bell,  entered 
the  empty  shop,  which  had  shelves  along  the  walls 
and  photographic  appliances  on  them,  together 
with  show-cases  on  the  counters.  A  plain  woman, 
with  a  kind  face,  came  through  the  inner  door  and 
asked  from  behind  the  counter  what  they  required. 

"  A  nice  frame,  if  you  please,  madam." 

"  At  what  price?  "  asked  the  woman;  she  wore 
mittens  on  her  swollen  fingers  with  which  she  rap- 
idly handled  picture-frames  of  different  shapes. 

"  These  are  fifty  kopeks  each;  and  these  are  a 
little  more  expensive.  There  is  rather  a  pretty 
one,  of  quite  a  new  style;  one  rouble  and  twenty 
kopeks." 

"  All  right,  I  will  have  this.  But  could  not 
you  make  it  cheaper?     Let  us  say  one  rouble." 

"  We  don't  bargain  in  our  shop,"  said  the 
shopkeeper  with  a  dignified  air. 

"  Well,  I  will  take  it,"  said  Mahin,  and  put 
the  coupon  on  the  counter.  "  Wrap  up  the  frame 
and  give  me  change.  But  please  be  quick.  We 
must  be  off  to  the  theatre,  and  it  is  getting  late." 

"  You  have  plenty  of  time,"  said  the  shop- 
keeper, examining  the  coupon  very  closely  because 
of  her  shortsightedness. 


68  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"  It  will  look  lovely  in  that  frame,  don't  you 
think  so?  "  said  Mahin,  turning  to  Mitia. 

"  Have  you  no  small  change?  "  asked  the  shop- 
woman. 

"  I  am  sorry,  I  have  not.  My  father  gave  me 
that,  so  I  have  to  cash  it." 

"But  surely  you  have  one  rouble  twenty?" 

"  I  have  only  fifty  kopeks  in  cash.  But  what 
are  you  afraid  of?  You  don't  think,  I  suppose, 
that  we  want  to  cheat  you  and  give  you  bad 
money?  " 

"  Oh,  no;  I  don't  mean  anything  of  the 
sort." 

"  You  had  better  give  it  to  me  back.  We  will 
cash  it  somewhere  else." 

"  How  much  have  I  to  pay  you  back?  Eleven 
and  something." 

She  made  a  calculation  on  the  counter,  opened 
the  desk,  took  out  a  ten-roubles  note,  looked  for 
change  and  added  to  the  sum  six  twenty-kopeks 
coins  and  two  five-kopek  pieces. 

"  Please  make  a  parcel  of  the  frame,"  said 
Mahin,  taking  the  money  in  a  leisurely  fashion. 

"  Yes,  sir."  She  made  a  parcel  and  tied  it 
with  a  string. 

Mitia  only  breathed  freely  when  the  door  bell 
rang  behind  them,  and  they  were  again  in  the 
street. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  69 

"  There  are  ten  roubles  for  you,  and  let  me 
have  the  rest.      I  will  give  it  back  to  you." 

Mahin  went  off  to  the  theatre,  and  Mitia  called 
on  Grouchetsky  to  repay  the  money  he  had  bor- 
rowed from  him. 


IV 

An  hour  after  the  boys  were  gone  Eugene  Mihail- 
ovich,  the  owner  of  the  shop,  came  home,  and  be- 
gan to  count  his  receipts. 

"  Oh,  you  clumsy  fool !  Idiot  that  you  are !  " 
he  shouted,  addressing  his  wife,  afte:  having  seen 
the  coupon  and  noticed  the  forgery. 

"  But  I  have  often  seen  you,  Eugene,  accepting 
coupons  in  payment,  and  precisely  twelve  rouble 
ones,"  retorted  his  wife,  very  humiliated,  grieved, 
and  all  but  bursting  into  tears.  "  I  really  don't 
know  how  they  contrived  to  cheat  me,"  she  went 
on.  "They  were  pupils  of  the  school,  in  uni- 
form. One  of  them  was  quite  a  handsome  boy, 
and  looked  so  comme  il  faut." 

"  A  comme  il  faut  fool,  that  is  what  you  are !  " 
The  husband  went  on  scolding  her,  while  he 
counted  the  cash.  ..."  When  I  accept 
coupons,  I  see  what  is  written  on  them.  And  you 
probably  looked  only  at  the  boys'   pretty   faces. 


7o  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

You  had  better  behave  yourself  in  your  old  age." 

His  wife  could  not  stand  this,  and  got  into  a 
fury. 

"That  is  just  like  you  men!  Blaming  every- 
body around  you.  But  when  it  is  you  who  lose 
fifty-four  roubles  at  cards  —  that  is  of  no  conse- 
quence in  your  eyes." 

"  That  is  a  different  matter  —  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  his  wife, 
and  went  to  her  room.  There  she  began  to  re- 
mind herself  that  her  family  was  opposed  to  her 
marriage,  thinking  her  present  husband  far  below 
her  in  social  rank,  and  that  it  was  she  who  insisted 
on  marrying  him.  Then  she  went  on  thinking  of 
the  child  she  had  lost,  and  how  indifferent  her 
husband  had  been  to  their  loss.  She  hated  him 
so  intensely  at  that  moment  that  she  wished  for 
his  death.  Her  wish  frightened  her,  however, 
and  she  hurriedly  began  to  dress  and  left  the 
house.  When  her  husband  came  from  the  shop 
to  the  inner  rooms  of  their  flat  she  was  gone. 
Without  waiting  for  him  she  had  dressed  and 
gone  off  to  friends  —  a  teacher  of  French  in  the 
school,  a  Russified  Pole,  and  his  wife  —  who  had 
invited  her  and  her  husband  to  a  party  in  their 
house  that  evening. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  71 


The  guests  at  the  party  had  tea  and  cakes  offered 
to  them,  and  sat  down  after  that  to  play  whist  at 
a  number  of  card-tables. 

The  partners  of  Eugene  Mihailovich's  wife 
were  the  host  himself,  an  officer,  and  an  old  and 
very  stupid  lady  in  a  wig,  a  widow  who  owned  a 
music-shop;  she  loved  playing  cards  and  played 
remarkably  well.  But  it  was  Eugene  Mihailo- 
vich's wife  who  was  the  winner  all  the  time.  The 
best  cards  were  continually  in  her  hinds.  At  her 
side  she  had  a  plate  with  grapes  and  a  pear  and 
was  in  the  best  of  spirits. 

"And  Eugene  Mihailovich?  Why  is  he  so 
late?"  asked  the  hostess,  who  played  at  another 
table. 

"  Probably  busy  settling  accounts,"  said  Eugene 
Mihailovich's  wife.  "  He  has  to  pay  off  the 
tradesmen,  to  get  in  firewood."  The  quarrel  she 
had  with  her  husband  revived  in  her  memory; 
she  frowned,  and  her  hands,  from  which  she  had 
not  taken  off  the  mittens,  shook  with  fury  against 
him. 

"  Oh,  there  he  is.  —  We  have  just  been  speak- 
ing of  you,"  said  the  hostess  to  Eugene  Mihailo- 


72  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

vich,  who  came  in  at  that  very  moment.  "  Why 
are  you  so  late?  " 

"  I  was  busy,"  answered  Eugene  Mihailovich, 
in  a  gay  voice,  rubbing  his  hands.  And  to  his 
wife's  surprise  he  came  to  her  side  and  said,  — 

"  You  know,  I  managed  to  get  rid  of  the  cou- 
pon." 

"  No!     You  don't  say  so!  " 

"  Yes,  I  used  it  to  pay  for  a  cart-load  of  fire- 
wood I  bought  from  a  peasant." 

And  Eugene  Mihailovich  related  with  great  in- 
dignation to  the  company  present  —  his  wife  add- 
ing more  details  to  his  narrative  —  how  his  wife 
had  been  cheated  by  two  unscrupulous  schoolboys. 

"  Well,  and  now  let  us  sit  down  to  work,"  he 
said,  taking  his  place  at  one  of  the  whist-tables 
when  his  turn  came,  and  beginning  to  shuffle  the 
cards. 

VI 

Eugene  Mihailovich  had  actually  used  the  cou- 
pon to  buy  firewood  from  the  peasant  Ivan  Mi- 
ronov,  who  had  thought  of  setting  up  in  business 
on  the  seventeen  roubles  he  possessed.  He  hoped 
in  this  way  to  earn  another  eight  roubles,  and  with 
the  twenty-five  roubles  thus  amassed  he  intended 
to  buy  a  good  strong  horse,  which  he  would  want 
in  the  spring  for  work  in  the  fields  and  for  driv- 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  73 

ing  on  the  roads,  as  his  old  horse  was  almost 
played  out. 

Ivan  Mironov's  commercial  method  consisted 
in  buying  from  the  stores  a  cord  of  wood  and  di- 
viding it  into  five  cartloads,  and  then  driving 
about  the  town,  selling  each  of  these  at  the  price 
the  stores  charged  for  a  quarter  of  a  cord.  That 
unfortunate  day  Ivan  Mironov  drove  out  very 
early  with  half  a  cartload,  which  he  soon  sold. 
He  loaded  up  again  with  another  cartload  which 
he  hoped  to  sell,  but  he  looked  in  vain  for  a  cus- 
tomer; no  one  would  buy  it.  It  was  his  bad  luck 
all  that  day  to  come  across  experienced  towns- 
people, who  knew  all  the  tricks  of  the  peasants  in 
selling  firewood,  and  would  not  believe  that  he 
had  actually  brought  the  wood  from  the  country 
as  he  assured  them.  He  got  hungry,  and  felt 
cold  in  his  ragged  woollen  coat.  It  was  nearly 
below  zero  when  evening  came  on ;  his  horse 
which  he  had  treated  without  mercy,  hoping  soon 
to  sell  it  to  the  knacker's  yard,  refused  to  move  a 
step.  So  Ivan  Mironov  was  quite  ready  to  sell 
his  firewood  at  a  loss  when  he  met  Eugene  Mihail- 
ovich,  who  was  on  his  way  home  from  the  tobac- 
conist. 

"  Buy  my  cartload  of  firewood,  sir.  I  will  give 
it  to  you  cheap.  My  poor  horse  is  tired,  and  can't 
go  any  farther." 


74  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"Where  do  you  come  from?" 

"  From  the  country,  sir.  This  firewood  is 
from  our  place.  Good  dry  wood,  I  can  assure 
you." 

"  Good  wood  indeed !  I  know  your  tricks. 
Well,  what  is  your  price?" 

Ivan  Mironov  began  by  asking  a  high  price, 
but  reduced  it  once,  and  finished  by  selling  the 
cartload  for  just  what  it  had  cost  him. 

"  I'm  giving  it  to  you  cheap,  just  to  please  you, 
sir.  —  Besides,  I  am  glad  it  is  not  a  long  way  to 
your  house,"  he  added. 

Eugene  Mihailovich  did  not  bargain  very  much. 
He  did  not  mind  paying  a  little  more,  because  he 
was  delighted  to  think  he  could  make  use  of  the 
coupon  and  get  rid  of  it.  With  great  difficulty 
Ivan  Mironov  managed  at  last,  by  pulling  the 
shafts  himself,  to  drag  his  cart  into  the  courtyard, 
where  he  was  obliged  to  unload  the  firewood  un- 
aided and  pile  it  up  in  the  shed.  The  yard-porter 
was  out.  Ivan  Mironov  hesitated  at  first  to  ac- 
cept the  coupon,  but  Eugene  Mihailovich  insisted, 
and  as  he  looked  a  very  important  person  the  peas- 
ant at  last  agreed. 

He  went  by  the  backstairs  to  the  servants' 
room,  crossed  himself  before  the  ikon,  wiped  his 
beard  which  was  covered  with  icicles,  turned  up 
the  skirts  of  his  coat,   took  out  of  his  pocket  a 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  75 

leather  purse,  and  out  of  the  purse  eight  roubles 
and  fifty  kopeks,  and  handed  the  change  to  Eu- 
gene Mihailovich.  Carefully  folding  the  coupon, 
he  put  it  in  the  purse.  Then,  according  to  cus- 
tom, he  thanked  the  gentleman  for  his  kindness, 
and,  using  the  whip-handle  instead  of  the  lash,  he 
belaboured  the  half-frozen  horse  that  he  had 
doomed  to  an  early  death,  and  betook  himself  to 
a  public-house. 

Arriving  there,  Ivan  Mironov  called  for  vodka 
and  tea  for  which  he  paid  eight  kopeks.  Com- 
fortable and  warm  after  the  tea,  he  chatted  in  the 
very  best  of  spirits  with  a  yard-porter  who  was 
sitting  at  his  table.  Soon  he  grew  communicative 
and  told  his  companion  all  about  the  conditions  of 
his  life.  He  told  him  he  came  from  the  village 
Vassilievsky,  twelve  miles  from  town,  and  also 
that  he  had  his  allotment  of  land  given  to  him 
by  his  family,  as  he  wanted  to  live  apart  from  his 
father  and  his  brothers;  that  he  had  a  wife  and 
two  children;  the  elder  boy  went  to  school,  and 
did  not  yet  help  him  in  his  work.  He  also  said  he 
lived  in  lodgings  and  intended  going  to  the  horse- 
fair  the  next  day  to  look  for  a  good  horse,  and, 
may  be,  to  buy  one.  He  went  on  to  state  that  he 
had  now  nearly  twenty-five  roubles  —  only  one 
rouble  short  —  and  that  half  of  it  was  a  coupon. 
He  took  the  coupon  out  of  his  purse  to  show  to  his 


76  THE   FORGED  COUPON 

new  friend.  The  yard-porter  was  an  illiterate 
man,  but  he  said  he  had  had  such  coupons  given 
him  by  lodgers  to  change;  that  they  were  good; 
but  that  one  might  also  chance  on  forged  ones; 
so  he  advised  the  peasant,  for  the  sake  of  security, 
to  change  it  at  once  at  the  counter.  Ivan  Mironov 
gave  the  coupon  to  the  waiter  and  asked  for 
change.  The  waiter,  however,  did  not  bring  the 
change,  but  came  back  with  the  manager,  a  bald- 
headed  man  with  a  shining  face,  who  was  holding 
the  coupon  in  his  fat  hand. 

"  Your  money  is  no  good,"  he  said,  showing  the 
coupon,  but  apparently  determined  not  to  give  it 
back. 

"  The  coupon  must  be  all  right.  I  got  it  from 
a  gentleman." 

"  It  is  bad,  I  tell  you.     The  coupon  is  forged." 

"  Forged?     Give  it  back  to  me." 

"  I  will  not.  You  fellows  have  got  to  be  pun- 
ished for  such  tricks.  Of  course,  you  did  it  your- 
self—  you  and  some  of  your  rascally  friends." 

"  Give  me  the  money.  What  right  have 
you  —  " 

"Sidor!  Call  a  policeman,"  said  the  barman 
to  the  waiter.  Ivan  Mironov  was  rather  drunk, 
and  in  that  condition  was  hard  to  manage.  He 
seized  the  manager  by  the  collar  and  began  to 
shout. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  77 

"  Give  me  back  my  money,  I  say.  I  will  go  to 
the  gentleman  who  gave  it  to  me.  I  know  where 
he  lives." 

The  manager  had  to  struggle  with  all  his  force 
to  get  loose  from  Ivan  Mironov,  and  his  shirt  was 
torn, — 

"  Oh,  that's  the  way  you  behave !  Get  hold  of 
him." 

The  waiter  took  hold  of  Ivan  Mironov;  at  that 
moment  the  policeman  arrived.  Looking  very 
important,  he  inquired  what  had  happened,  and 
unhesitatingly  gave  his  orders: 

"  Take  him  to  the  police-station." 

As  to  the  coupon,  the  policeman  put  it  in  his 
pocket;  Ivan  Mironov,  together  with  his  horse, 
was  brought  to  the  nearest  station. 


VII 

Ivan  Mironov  had  to  spend  the  night  in  the  po- 
lice-station, in  the  company  of  drunkards  and 
thieves.  It  was  noon  of  the  next  day  when  he 
was  summoned  to  the  police  officer;  put  through 
a  close  examination,  and  sent  in  the  care  of  a  po- 
liceman to  Eugene  Mihailovich's  shop.  Ivan  Mi- 
ronov remembered  the  street  and  the  house. 
The     policeman    asked    for    the     shopkeeper, 


78  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

showed  him  the  coupon  and  confronted  him  with 
Ivan  Mironov,  who  declared  that  he  had  received 
the  coupon  in  that  very  place.  Eugene  Mihailo- 
vich  at  once  assumed  a  very  severe  and  astonished 
air. 

"  You  are  mad,  my  good  fellow,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  never  seen  this  man  before  in  my  life,"  he 
added,  addressing  the  policeman. 

"  It  is  a  sin,  sir,"  said  Ivan  Mironov.  "  Think 
of  the  hour  when  you  will  die." 

"Why,  you  must  be  dreaming!  You  have 
sold  your  firewood  to  some  one  else,"  said  Eu- 
gene Mihailovich.  "  But  wait  a  minute.  I  will 
go  and  ask  my  wife  whether  she  bought  any  fire- 
wood yesterday."  Eugene  Mihailovich  left  them 
and  immediately  called  the  yard-porter  Vassily,  a 
strong,  handsome,  quick,  cheerful,  well-dressed 
man. 

He  told  Vassily  that  if  any  one  should  inquire 
where  the  last  supply  of  firewood  was  bought,  he 
was  to  say  they'd  got  it  from  the  stores,  and  not 
from  a  peasant  in  the  street. 

"  A  peasant  has  come,"  he  said  to  Vassily, 
"  who  has  declared  to  the  police  that  I  gave  him 
a  forged  coupon.  He  is  a  fool  and  talks  non- 
sense, but  you  are  a  clever  man.  Mind  you  say 
that  we  always  get  the  firewood  from  the  stores. 
And,  by  the  way,  I've  been  thinking  some  time  of 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  79 

giving  you  money  to  buy  a  new  jacket,"  added  Eu- 
gene Mihailovich,  and  gave  the  man  five  roubles. 
Vassily  looking  with  pleasure  first  at  the  five  rou- 
ble note,  then  at  Eugene  Mihailovich's  face,  shook 
his  head  and  smiled. 

"  I  know,  those  peasant  folks  have  no  brains. 
Ignorance,  of  course.  Don't  you  be  uneasy.  I 
know  what  I  have  to  say." 

Ivan  Mironov,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  implored 
Eugene  Mihailovich  over  and  over  again  to  ac- 
knowledge the  coupon  he  had  given  him,  and  the 
yard-porter  to  believe  what  he  said,  but  it  proved 
quite  useless;  they  both  insisted  that  they  had 
never  bought  firewood  from  a  peasant  in  the 
street.  The  policeman  brought  Ivan  Mironov 
back  to  the  police-station,  and  he  was  charged  with 
forging  the  coupon.  Only  after  taking  the  ad- 
vice of  a  drunken  office  clerk  in  the  same  cell  with 
him,  and  bribing  the  police  officer  with  five  rou- 
bles, did  Ivan  Mironov  get  out  of  jail,  without 
the  coupon,  and  with  only  seven  roubles  left  out 
of  the  twenty-five  he  had  the  day  before. 

Of  these  seven  roubles  he  spent  three  in  the 
public-house  and  came  home  to  his  wife  dead 
drunk,  with  a  bruised  and  swollen  face. 

,  His  wife  was  expecting  a  child,  and  felt  very 
ill.  She  began  to  scold  her  husband;  he  pushed 
her  away,  and  she  struck  him.     Without  answer- 


80  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

ing  a  word  he  lay  down  on  the  plank  and  began 
to  weep  bitterly. 

Not  till  the  next  day  did  he  tell  his  wife  what 
had  actually  happened.  She  believed  him  at 
once,  and  thoroughly  cursed  the  dastardly  rich 
man  who  had  cheated  Ivan.  He  was  sobered 
now,  and  remembering  the  advice  a  workman  had 
given  him,  with  whom  he  had  many  a  drink  the 
day  before,  decided  to  go  to  a  lawyer  and  tell  him 
of  the  wrong  the  owner  of  the  photograph  shop 
had  done  him. 


VIII 

The  lawyer  consented  to  take  proceedings  on  be- 
half of  Ivan  Mironov,  not  so  much  for  the  sake 
of  the  fee,  as  because  he  believed  the  peasant,  and 
was  revolted  by  the  wrong  done  to  him. 

Both  parties  appeared  in  the  court  when  the 
case  was  tried,  and  the  yard-porter  Vassily  was 
summoned  as  witness.  They  repeated  in  the 
court  all  they  had  said  before  to  the  police  officials. 
Ivan  Mironov  again  called  to  his  aid  the  name  of 
the  Divinity,  and  reminded  the  shopkeeper  of  the 
hour  of  death.  Eugene  Mihailovich,  although 
quite  aware  of  his  wickedness,  and  the  risks  he 
was  running,  despite  the  rebukes  of  his  conscience, 
could  not  now  change  his  testimony,  and  went  on 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  81 

calmly  to  deny  all  the  allegations  made  against 
him. 

The  yard-porter  Vassily  had  received  another 
ten  roubles  from  his  master,  and,  quite  unper- 
turbed, asserted  with  a  smile  that  he  did  not  know 
anything  about  Ivan  Mironov.  And  when  he 
was  called  upon  to  take  the  oath,  he  overcame  his 
inner  qualms,  and  repeated  with  assumed  ease 
the  terms  of  the  oath,  read  to  him  by  the  old 
priest  appointed  to  the  court.  By  the  holy  Cross 
and  the  Gospel,  he  swore  that  he  spoke  the  whole 
truth. 

The  case  was  decided  against  Ivan  Mironov, 
who  was  sentenced  to  pay  five  roubles  for  expenses. 
This  sum  Eugene  Mihailovich  generously  paid 
for  him.  Before  dismissing  Ivan  Mironov,  the 
judge  severely  admonished  him,  saying  he  ought 
to  take  care  in  the  future  not  to  accuse  respectable 
people,  and  that  he  also  ought  to  be  thankful  that 
he  was  not  forced  to  pay  the  costs,  and  that  he  had 
escaped  a  prosecution  for  slander,  for  which  he 
would  have  been  condemned  to  three  months'  im- 
prisonment. 

"  I  offer  my  humble  thanks,"  said  Ivan  Mi- 
ronov; and,  shaking  his  head,  left  the  court  with 
a  heavy  sigh. 

The  whole  thing  seemed  to  have  ended  well  for 
Eugene  Mihailovich  and  the  yard-porter  Vassily. 


32  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

But  only  in  appearance.  Something  had  hap- 
pened which  was  not  noticed  by  any  one,  but  which 
was  much  more  important  than  all  that  had  been 
exposed  to  view. 

Vassily  had  left  his  village  and  settled  in  town 
over  two  years  ago.  As  time  went  on  he  sent 
less  and  less  money  to  his  father,  and  he  did  not 
ask  his  wife,  who  remained  at  home,  to  join  him. 
He  was  in  no  need  of  her;  he  could  in  town  have 
as  many  wives  as  he  wished,  and  much  better  ones 
too  than  that  clumsy,  village-bred  woman.  Vas- 
sily, with  each  recurring  year,  became  more  and 
more  familiar  with  the  ways  of  the  town  people, 
forgetting  the  conventions  of  a  country  life. 
There  everything  was  so  vulgar,  so  grey,  so  poor 
and  untidy.  Here,  in  town,  all  seemed  on  the 
contrary  so  refined,  nice,  clean,  and  rich;  so  or- 
derly too.  And  he  became  more  and  more  con- 
vinced that  people  in  the  country  live  just  like 
wild  beasts,  having  no  idea  of  what  life  is,  and 
that  only  life  in  town  is  real.  He  read  books 
written  by  clever  writers,  and  went  to  the  perform- 
ances in  the  Peoples'  Palace.  In  the  country, 
people  would  not  see  such  wonders  even  in  dreams. 
In  the  country  old  men  say:  "Obey  the  law,  and 
live  with  your  wife;  work;  don't  eat  too  much; 
don't  care  for  finery,"  while  here,  in  town,  all  the 
clever    and    learned    people  —  those,    of    course, 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  83 

who  know  what  in  reality  the  law  is  —  only  pur- 
sue their  own  pleasures.  And  they  are  the  bet- 
ter for  it. 

Previous  to  the  incident  of  the  forged  coupon, 
Vassily  could  not  actually  believe  that  rich  people 
lived  without  any  moral  law.  But  after  that, 
still  more  after  having  perjured  himself,  and  not 
being  the  worse  for  it  in  spite  of  his  fears  —  on 
the  contrary,  he  had  gained  ten  roubles  out  of  it 
—  Vassily  became  firmly  convinced  that  no  moral 
laws  whatever  exist,  and  that  the  only  thing  to  do 
is  to  pursue  one's  own  interests  and  pleasures. 
This  he  'now  made  his  rule  in  life.  He  accord- 
ingly got  as  much  profit  as  he  could  out  of  pur- 
chasing goods  for  lodgers.  But  this  did  not  pay 
all  his  expenses.  Then  he  took  to  stealing,  when- 
ever chance  offered  —  money  and  all  sorts  of  val- 
uables. One  day  he  stole  a  purse  full  of  money 
from  Eugene  Mihailovich,  but  was  found  out. 
Eugene  Mihailovich  did  not  hand  him  over  to  the 
police,  but  dismissed  him  on  the  spot. 

Vassily  had  no  wish  whatever  to  return  home 
to  his  village,  and  remained  in  Moscow  with  his 
sweetheart,  looking  out  for  a  new  job.  He  got 
one  as  yard-porter  at  a  grocer's,  but  with  only 
small  wages.  The  next  day  after  he  had  entered 
that  service  he  was  caught  stealing  bags.  I  he 
grocer  did  not  call  in  the  police,  but  gave  him  a 


84  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

good  thrashing  and  turned  him  out.  After  that 
he  could  not  find  work.  The  money  he  had  left 
was  soon  gone;  he  had  to  sell  all  his  clothes  and 
went  about  nearly  in  rags.  His  sweetheart  left 
him.  But  notwithstanding,  he  kept  up  his  high 
spirits,  and  when  the  spring  came  he  started  to 
walk  home. 


IX 

Peter  Nikolaevich  Sventizky,  a  short  man  in 
black  spectacles  (he  had  weak  eyes,  and  was 
threatened  with  complete  blindness),  got  up,  as 
was  his  custom,  at  dawn  of  day,  had  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  putting  on  his  short  fur  coat  trimmed  with 
astrachan,  went  to  look  after  the  work  on  his  es- 
tate. 

Peter  Nikolaevich  had  been  an  official  in  the 
Customs,  and  had  gained  eighteen  thousand  rou- 
bles during  his  service.  About  twelve  years  ago 
he  quitted  the  service  —  not  quite  of  his  own  ac- 
cord: as  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  been  compelled 
to  leave  —  and  bought  an  estate  from  a  young 
land-owner  who  had  dissipated  his  fortune.  Peter 
Nikolaevich  had  married  at  an  earlier  period, 
while  still  an  official  in  the  Customs.  His  wife, 
who  belonged  to  an  old  noble  family,  was  an 
orphan,   and  was  left  without  money.     She  was 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  85 

a  tall,  stoutish,  good-looking  woman.  They  had 
no  children.  Peter  Nikolaevich  had  considerable 
practical  talents  and  a  strong  will.  He  was  the 
son  of  a  Polish  gentleman,  and  knew  nothing 
about  agriculture  and  land  management;  but 
when  he  acquired  an  estate  of  his  own,  he  man- 
aged it  so  well  that  after  fifteen  years  the  waste 
piece  of  land,  consisting  of  three  hundred  acres, 
became  a  model  estate.  All  the  buildings,  •  from 
the  dwelling-house  to  the  corn  stores  and  the  shed 
for  the  fire  engine  were  solidly  built,  had  iron 
roofs,  and  were  painted  at  the  right  time.  In  the 
tool  house  carts,  ploughs,  harrows,  stood  in  per- 
fect order,  the  harness  was  well  cleaned  and  oiled. 
The  horses  were  not  very  big,  but  all  home-bred, 
grey,  well  fed,  strong  and  devoid  of  blemish. 

The  threshing  machine  worked  in  a  roofed 
barn,  the  forage  was  kept  in  a  separate  shed,  and 
a  paved  drain  was  made  from  the  stables.  The 
cows  were  home-bred,  not  very  large,  but  giving 
plenty  of  milk;  fowls  were  also  kept  in  the  poultry 
yard,  and  the  hens  were  of  a  special  kind,  laying 
a  great  quantity  of  eggs.  In  the  orchard  the  fruit 
trees  were  well  whitewashed  and  propped  on  poles 
to  enable  them  to  grow  straight.  Everything  was 
looked  after  —  solid,  clean,  and  in  perfect  order. 
Peter  Nikolaevich  rejoiced  in  the  perfect  condi- 
tion of  his  estate,  and  was  proud  to  have  achieved 


86  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

it  —  not  by  oppressing  the  peasants,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  by  the  extreme  fairness  of  his  dealings 
with  them. 

Among  the  nobles  of  his  province  he  belonged 
to  the  advanced  party,  and  was  more  inclined  to 
liberal  than  conservative  views,  always  taking  the 
side  of  the  peasants  against  those  who  were  still 
in  favour  of  serfdom.  "  Treat  them  well,  and 
they  -will  be  fair  to  you,"  he  used  to  say.  Of 
course,  he  did  not  overlook  any  carelessness  on 
the  part  of  those  who  worked  on  his  estate,  and 
he  urged  them  on  to  work  if  they  were  lazy;  but 
then  he  gave  them  good  lodging,  with  plenty  of 
good  food,  paid  their  wages  without  any  delay, 
and  gave  them  drinks  on  days  of  festival. 

Walking  cautiously  on  the  melting  snow  —  for 
the  time  of  the  year  was  February  —  Peter  Nikol- 
aevich  passed  the  stables,  and  made  his  way  to 
the  cottage  where  his  workmen  were  lodged. 
It  was  still  dark,  the  darker  because  of  the  dense 
fog;  but  the  windows  of  the  cottage  were  lighted. 
The  men  had  already  got  up.  His  intention  was 
to  urge  them  to  begin  work.  He  had  arranged 
that  they  should  drive  out  to  the  forest  and  bring 
back  the  last  supply  of  firewood  he  needed  before 
spring. 

"What  is  that?"  he  thought,  seeing  the  door 
of  the  stable  wide  open.     "  Hallo,  who  is  there?  " 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  87 

No  answer.  Peter  Nikolaevich  stepped  into 
the  stable.  It  was  dark;  the  ground  was  soft 
under  his  feet,  and  the  air  smelt  of  dung;  on  the 
right  side  of  the  door  were  two  loose  boxes  for 
a  pair  of  grey  horses.  Peter  Nikolaevich 
stretched  out  his  hand  in  their  direction  —  one  • 
box  was  empty.  He  put  out  his  foot  —  the  horse 
might  have  been  lying  down.  But  his  foot  did 
not  touch  anything  solid.  "  Where  could  they 
have  taken  the  horse?"  he  thought.  They  cer- 
tainly had  not  harnessed  it;  all  the  sledges  stood 
still  outside.  Peter  Nikolaevich  went  out  of  the 
stable. 

"  Stepan,  come  here!"  he  called. 

Stepan  was  the  head  of  the  workmen's  gang. 
He  was  just  stepping  out  of  the  cottage. 

"  Here  I  am!"  he  said,  in  a  cheerful  voice. 
"Oh,  is  that  you,  Peter  Nikolaevich?  Our  men 
are  coming." 

"  Why  is  the  stable  door  open?  " 

"  Is  it?  I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I 
say,  Proshka,  bring  the  lantern  !  " 

Proshka  came  with  the  lantern.  They  all  went 
to  the  stable,  and  Stepan  knew  at  once  what  had 
happened. 

"  Thieves  have  been  here,  Peter  Nikolaevich," 
he  said.      "  The  lock  is  broken." 

"  No;  you  don't  say  so!  " 


88  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"Yes,  the  brigands!  I  don't  see  '  Mashka.' 
'  Hawk  '  is  here.  But  '  Beauty  '  is  not.  Nor  yet 
'  Dapple-grey.'  " 

Three  horses  had  been  stolen  ! 

Peter  Nikolaevich  did  not  utter  a  word  at  first. 
He  only  frowned  and  took  deep  breaths. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  after  a  while.  "  If  only  I  could 
lay  hands  on  them  !     Who  was  on  guard?  " 

"  Peter.     He  evidently  fell  asleep." 

Peter  Nikolaevich  called  in  the  police,  and 
making  an  appeal  to  all  the  authorities,  sent  his 
men  to  track  the  thieves.  But  the  horses  were 
not  to  be  found. 

"  Wicked  people,"  said  Peter  Nikolaevich. 
"How  could  they!  I  was  always  so  kind  to 
them.  Now,  wait!  Brigands!  Brigands  the 
whole  lot  of  them.     I  will  no  longer  be  kind." 


In  the  meanwhile  the  horses,  the  grey  ones,  had 
all  been  disposed  of;  Mashka  was  sold  to  the  gip- 
sies for  eighteen  roubles;  Dapple-grey  was  ex- 
changed for  another  horse,  and  passed  over  to 
another  peasant  who  lived  forty  miles  away  from 
the  estate ;  and  Beauty  died  on  the  way.  The  man 
who  conducted  the  whole  affair  was  —  Ivan  Mi- 
ronov.     He  had  been  employed  on  the  estate,  and 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  89 

knew  all  the  whereabouts  of  Peter  Nikolaevich. 
He  wanted  to  get  back  the  money  he  had  lost,  and 
stole  the  horses  for  that  reason. 

After  his  misfortune  with  the  forged  coupon, 
Ivan  Mironov  took  to  drink;  and  all  he  possessed 
would  have  gone  on  drink  if  it  had  not  been  for 
his  wife,  who  locked  up  his  clothes,  the  horses' 
collars,  and  all  the  rest  of  what  he  would  other- 
wise have  squandered  in  public-houses.  In  his 
drunken  state  Ivan  Mironov  was  continually 
thinking,  not  only  of  the  man  who  had  wronged 
him,  but  of  all  the  rich  people  who  live  on  robbing 
the  poor.  One  day  he  had  a  drink  with  some 
peasants  from  the  suburbs  of  Podo^k,  and  was 
walking  home  together  with  them.  On  the  way 
the  peasants,  who  were  completely  drunk,  told  him 
they  had  stolen  a  horse  from  a  peasant's  cottage. 
Ivan  Mironov  got  angry,  and  began  to  abuse  the 
horse-thieves. 

"  What  a  shame !  "  he  said.  "  A  horse  is  like 
a  brother  to  the  peasant.  And  you  robbed  him  of 
it?  It  is  a  great  sin,  I  tell  you.  If  you  go  in  for 
stealing  horses,  steal  them  from  the  landowners. 
They  are  worse  than  dogs,  and  deserve  anything.'' 

The  talk  went  on,  and  the  peasants  from  Po- 
dolsk told  him  that  it  required  a  great  deal  of 
cunning  to  steal  a  horse  on  an  estate. 

"  You  must  know  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  the 


9o  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

place,  and  must  have  somebody  on  the  spot  to 
help  you." 

Then  it  occurred  to  Ivan  Mironov  that  he  knew 
a  landowner  —  Sventizky;  he  had  worked  on  his 
estate,  and  Sventizky,  when  paying  him  off,  had 
deducted  one  rouble  and  a  half  for  a  broken  tool. 
He  remembered  well  the  grey  horses  which  he 
used  to  drive  at  Sventizky's. 

Ivan  Mironov  called  on  Peter  Nikolaevich  pre- 
tending to  ask  for  employment,  but  really  in  or- 
der to  get  the  information  he  wanted.  He  took 
precautions  to  make  sure  that  the  watchman  was 
absent,  and  that  the  horses  were  standing  in  their 
boxes  in  the  stable.  He  brought  the  thieves  to 
the  place,  and  helped  them  to  carry  off  the  three 
horses. 

They  divided  their  gains,  and  Ivan  Mironov 
returned  to  his  wife  with  five  roubles  in  his  pocket. 
He  had  nothing  to  do  at  home,  having  no  horse 
to  work  in  the  field,  and  therefore  continued  to 
steal  horses  in  company  with  professional  horse- 
thieves  and  gipsies. 


XI 

Peter  Nikolaevich  Sventizky  did  his  best  to 
discover  who  had  stolen  his  horses.  He  knew 
somebody   on   the    estate   must   have    helped   the 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  91 

thieves,  and  began  to  suspect  all  his  staff.  He 
inquired  who  had  slept  out  that  night,  and  the 
gang  of  the  working  men  told  him  Proshka  had 
not  been  in  the  whole  night.  Proshka,  or  Prokofy 
Nikolaevich,  was  a  young  fellow  who  had  just  fin- 
ished his  military  service,  handsome,  and  skilful 
in  all  he  did;  Peter  Nikolaevich  employed  him  at 
times  as  coachman.  The  district  constable  was  a 
friend  of  Peter  Nikolaevich,  as  were  the  provin- 
cial head  of  the  police,  the  marshal  of  the  nobility, 
and  also  the  rural  councillor  and  the  examining 
magistrate.  They  all  came  to  his  house  on  his 
saint's  day,  drinking  the  cherry  brandy  he  offered 
them  with  pleasure,  and  eating  the  nice  preserved 
mushrooms  of  all  kinds  to  accompany  the  liqueurs. 
They  all  sympathised  with  him  in  his  trouble  and 
tried  to  help  him. 

"  You  always  used  to  take  the  side  of  the  peas- 
ants," said  the  district  constable,  "  and  there  you 
are!  I  was  right  in  saying  they  are  worse  than 
wild  beasts.  Flogging  is  the  only  way  to  keep 
them  in  order.  Well,  you  say  it  is  all  Proshka's 
doings.  Is  it  not  he  who  was  your  coachman 
sometimes?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  he." 

11  Will  you  kindly  call  him?  " 

Proshka  was  summoned  before  the  constable, 
who  began  to  examine  him. 


92  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"  Where  were  you  that  night?  " 

Proshka  pushed  back  his  hair,  and  his  eyes 
sparkled. 

"  At  home." 

"  How  so?     All  the  men  say  you  were  not  in." 

"  Just  as  you  please,  your  honour." 

"  My  pleasure  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  mat- 
ter.    Tell  me  where  you  were  that  night." 

"  At  home." 

"  Very  well.  Policeman,  bring  him  to  the  po- 
iice-station." 

The  reason  why  Proshka  did  not  say  where  he 
had  been  that  night  was  that  he  had  spent  it  with 
his  sweetheart,  Parasha,  and  had  promised  not  to 
give  her  away.  He  kept  his  word.  No  proofs 
were  discovered  against  him,  and  he  was  soon  dis- 
charged. But  Peter  Nikolaevich  was  convinced 
that  Prokofy  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole 
affair,  and  began  to  hate  him.  One  day  Proshka 
bought  as  usual  at  the  merchant's  two  measures  of 
oats.  One  and  a  half  he  gave  to  the  horses,  and 
half  a  measure  he  gave  back  to  the  merchant;  the 
money  for  it  he  spent  in  drink.  Peter  Nikolae- 
vich found  it  out,  and  charged  Prokofy  with  cheat- 
ing. The  judge  sentenced  the  man  to  three 
months'  imprisonment. 

Prokofy  had  a  rather  proud  nature,  and  thought 
himself  superior  to  others.     Prison  was  a  great 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  93 

humiliation  for  him.  He  came  out  of  it  very- 
depressed;  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  proud 
of  in  life.  And  more  than  that,  he  felt  extremely 
bitter,  not  only  against  Peter  Nikolaevich,  but 
against  the  whole  world. 

On  the  whole,  as  all  the  people  around  him  no- 
ticed, Prokofy  became  another  man  after  his  im- 
prisonment, both  careless  and  lazy;  he  took  to 
drink,  and  he  was  soon  caught  stealing  clothes  at 
some  woman's  house,  and  found  himself  again  in 
prison. 

All  that  Peter  Nikolaevich  discovered  about  his 
grey  horses  was  the  hide  of  one  of  them,  Beauty, 
which  had  been  found  somewhere  on  the  estate. 
The  fact  that  the  thieves  had  got  off  scot-free 
irritated  Peter  Nikolaevich  still  more.  He  was 
unable  now  to  speak  of  the  peasants  or  to  look  at 
them  without  anger.  And  whenever  he  could  he 
tried  to  oppress  them. 

XII 

After  having  got  rid  of  the  coupon,  Eugene 
Mihailovich  forgot  all  about  it;  but  his  wife,  Ma- 
ria Vassilievna,  could  not  forgive  herself  for  hav- 
ing been  taken  in,  nor  yet  her  husband  for  his  cruel 
words.  And  most  of  all  she  was  furious  against 
the  two  boys  who  had  so  skilfully  cheated  her. 


94  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

From  the  day  she  had  accepted  the  forged  coupon 
as  payment,  she  looked  closely  at  all  the  school- 
boys who  came  in  her  way  in  the  streets.  One 
day  she  met  Mahin,  but  did  not  recognise  him, 
for  on  seeing  her  he  made  a  face  which  quite 
changed  his  features.  But  when,  a  fortnight  after 
the  incident  with  the  coupon,  she  met  Mitia 
Smokovnikov  face  to  face,  she  knew  him  at  once. 

She  let  him  pass  her,  then  turned  back  and 
followed  him,  and  arriving  at  his  house  she  made 
inquiries  as  to  whose  son  he  was.  The  next  day 
she  went  to  the  school  and  met  the  divinity 
instructor,  the  priest  Michael  Vedensky,  in  the 
hall.  He  asked  her  what  she  wanted.  She  an- 
swered that  she  wished  to  see  the  head  of  the 
school.  "  He  is  not  quite  well,"  said  the  priest. 
"  Can  I  be  of  any  use  to  you,  or  give  him  your 
message?  " 

Maria  Vassilievna  thought  that  she  might  as 
well  tell  the  priest  what  was  the  matter.  Michael 
Vedensky  was  a  widower,  and  a  very  ambitious 
man.  A  year  ago  he  had  met  Mitia  Smokovni- 
kov's  father  in  society,  and  had  had  a  discussion 
with  him  on  religion.  Smokovnikov  had  beaten 
him  decisively  on  all  points;  indeed,  he  had  made 
him  appear  quite  ridiculous.  Since  that  time  the 
priest  had  decided  to  pay  special  attention  to 
Smokovnikov's  son;  and,  finding  him  as  indifferent 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  95 

to  religious  matters  as  his  father  was,  he  began 
to  persecute  him,  and  even  brought  about  his  fail- 
ure in  examinations. 

When  Maria  Vassilievna  told  him  what  young 
Smokovnikov  had  done  to  her,  Vedensky  could 
not  help  feeling  an  inner  satisfaction.  He  saw  in 
the  boy's  conduct  a  proof  of  the  utter  wickedness 
of  those  who  are  not  guided  by  the  rules  of  the 
Church.  He  decided  to  take  advantage  of  this 
great  opportunity  of  warning  unbelievers  of  the 
perils  that  threatened  them.  At  all  events,  he 
wanted  to  persuade  himself  that  this  was  the  only 
motive  that  guided  him  in  the  course  he  had  re- 
solved to  take.  But  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he 
was  only  anxious  to  get  his  revenge  on  the  proud 
atheist. 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  sad  indeed,"  said  Father  Mi- 
chael, toying  with  the  cross  he  was  wearing  over 
his  priestly  robes,  and  passing  his  hands  over  its 
polished  sides.  "  I  am  very  glad  you  have  given 
me  your  confidence.  As  a  servant  of  the  Church 
I  shall  admonish  the  young  man  —  of  course  with 
the  utmost  kindness.  I  shall  certainly  do  it  in 
the  way  that  befits  my  holy  office,"  said  Father 
Michael  to  himself,  really  thinking  that  he  had 
forgotten  the  ill-feeling  the  boy's  father  had  to- 
wards him.  He  firmly  believed  the  boy's  soul 
to  be  the  only  object  of  his  pious  care. 


96  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

The  next  day,  during  the  divinity  lesson  which 
Father  Michael  was  giving  to  Mitia  Smokovni- 
kov's  class,  he  narrated  the  incident  of  the  forged 
coupon,  adding  that  the  culprit  had  been  one  of 
the  pupils  of  the  school.  "  It  was  a  very  wicked 
thing  to  do,"  he  said;  "but  to  deny  the  crime  is 
still  worse.  If  it  is  true  that  the  sin  has  been  com- 
mitted by  one  of  you,  let  the  guilty  one  confess." 
In  saying  this,  Father  Michael  looked  sharply  at 
Mitia  Smokovnikov.  All  the  boys,  following  his 
glance,  turned  also  to  Mitia,  who  blushed,  and 
felt  extremely  ill  at  ease,  with  large  beads  of 
perspiration  on  his  face.  Finally,  he  burst  into 
tears,  and  ran  out  of  the  classroom.  His  mother, 
noticing  his  trouble,  found  out  the  truth,  ran  at 
once  to  the  photographer's  shop,  paid  over  the 
twelve  roubles  and  fifty  kopeks  to  Maria  Vas- 
silievna,  and  made  her  promise  to  deny  the  boy's 
guilt.  She  further  implored  Mitia  to  hide  the 
truth  from  everybody,  and  in  any  case  to  withhold 
it  from  his  father. 

Accordingly,  when  Fedor  Mihailovich  had 
heard  of  the  incident  in  the  divinity  class,  and  his 
son,  questioned  by  him,  had  denied  all  accusations, 
he  called  at  once  on  the  head  of  the  school,  told 
him  what  had  happened,  expressed  his  indignation 
at  Father  Michael's  conduct,  and  said  he  would 
not  let  matters  remain  as  they  were. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  97 

Father  Michael  was  sent  for,  and  immediately 
fell  into  a  hot  dispute  with  Smokovnikov. 

"  A  stupid  woman  first  falsely  accused  my  son, 
then  retracts  her  accusation,  and  you  of  course 
could  not  hit  on  anything  more  sensible  to  do  than 
to  slander  an  honest  and  truthful  boy !  " 

"  I  did  not  slander  him,  and  I  must  beg  you  not 
to  address  me  in  such  a  way.  You  forget  what 
is  due  to  my  cloth." 

"  Your  cloth  is  of  no  consequence  to  me." 

"  Your  perversity  in  matters  of  religion  is 
known  to  everybody  in  the  town  !  "  replied  Father 
Michael;  and  he  was  so  transported  with  anger 
that  his  long  thin  head  quivered. 

"Gentlemen!  Father  Michael!"  exclaimed 
the  director  of  the  school,  trying  to  aopease  their 
wrath.      But  they  did  not  listen  to  him. 

"  It  is  my  duty  as  a  priest  to  look  after  the 
religious  and  moral  education  of  our  pupils." 

"  Oh,  cease  your  pretence  to  be  religious ! 
Oh,  stop  all  this  humbug  of  religion!  As  if  I 
did  not  know  that  you  believe  neither  in  God  nor 
Devil." 

"  I  consider  it  beneath  my  dignity  to  talk  to  a 
man  like  you,"  said  Father  Michael,  very  much 
hurt  by  Smokovnikov's  last  words,  the  more  so 
because  he  knew  they  were  true. 

Michael  Vedensky  carried  on  his  studies  in  the 


98  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

academy  for  priests,  and  that  is  why,  for  a  long 
time  past,  he  ceased  to  believe  in  what  he  con- 
fessed to  be  his  creed  and  in  what  he  preached 
from  the  pulpit;  he  only  knew  that  men  ought  to 
force  themselves  to  believe  in  what  he  tried  to 
make  himself  believe. 

Smokovnikov  was  not  shocked  by  Father  Mi- 
chael's conduct;  he  only  thought  it  illustrative  of 
the  influence  the  Church  was  beginning  to  exercise 
on  society,  and  he  told  all  his  friends  how  his  son 
had  been  insulted  by  the  priest. 

Seeing  not  only  young  minds,  but  also  the  elder 
generation,  contaminated  by  atheistic  tendencies, 
Father  Michael  became  more  and  more  convinced 
of  the  necessity  of  fighting  those  tendencies.  The 
more  he  condemned  the  unbelief  of  Smokovnikov, 
and  those  like  him,  the  more  confident  he  grew 
in  the  firmness  of  his  own  faith,  and  the  less  he 
felt  the  need  of  making  sure  of  it,  or  of  bringing 
his  life  into  harmony  with  it.  His  faith,  acknowl- 
edged as  such  by  all  the  world  around  him,  be- 
came Father  Michael's  very  best  weapon  with 
which  to  fight  those  who  denied  it. 

The  thoughts  aroused  in  him  by  his  conflict 
with  Smokovnikov,  together  with  the  annoyance 
of  being  blamed  by  his  chiefs  in  the  school,  made 
him  carry  out  the  purpose  he  had  entertained  ever 
since  his  wife's  death  —  of  taking  monastic  orders, 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  99 

and  of  following  the  course  carried  out  by  some 
of  his  fellow-pupils  in  the  academy.  One  of  them 
was  already  a  bishop,  another  an  archimandrite 
and  on  the  way  to  become  a  bishop. 

At  the  end  of  the  term  Michael  Vedensky  gave 
up  his  post  in  the  school,  took  orders  under  the 
name  of  Missael,  and  very  soon  got  a  post  as 
rector  in  a  seminary  in  a  town  on  the  river  Volga. 


XIII 

Meanwhile  the  yard-porter  Vassily  was  march- 
ing on  the  open  road  down  to  the  south. 

He  walked  in  daytime,  and  when  night  came 
some  policeman  would  get  him  shelter  in  a  peas- 
ant's cottage.  He  was  given  bread  everywhere, 
and  sometimes  he  was  asked  to  sit  down  to  the 
evening  meal.  In  a  village  in  the  Orel  district, 
where  he  had  stayed  for  the  night,  he  heard  that 
a  merchant  who  had  hired  the  landowner's  or- 
chard for  the  season,  was  looking  out  for  strong 
and  able  men  to  serve  as  watchmen  for  the  fruit- 
crops.  Vassily  was  tired  of  tramping,  and  as  he 
had  also  no  desire  whatever  to  go  back  to  his 
native  village,  he  went  to  the  man  who  owned  the 
orchard,  and  got  engaged  as  watchman  for  five 
roubles  a  month. 

Vassily  found  it  very  agreeable  to  live  in  his 


ioo  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

orchard  shed,  and  all  the  more  so  when  the  apples 
and  pears  began  to  grow  ripe,  and  when  the  men 
from  the  barn  supplied  him  every  day  with  large 
bundles  of  fresh  straw  from  the  threshing  ma- 
chine. He  used  to  lie  the  whole  day  long  on 
the  fragrant  straw,  with  fresh,  delicately  smell- 
ing apples  in  heaps  at  his  side,  looking  out  in 
every  direction  to  prevent  the  village  boys  from 
stealing  fruit;  and  he  used  to  whistle  and  sing 
meanwhile,  to  amuse  himself.  He  knew  no  end 
of  songs,  and  had  a  fine  voice.  When  peasant 
women  and  young  girls  came  to  ask  for  apples, 
and  to  have  a  chat  with  him,  Vassily  gave  them 
larger  or  smaller  apples  according  as  he  liked 
their  looks,  and  received  eggs  or  money  in  re- 
turn. The  rest  of  the  time  he  had  nothing  to  do, 
but  to  lie  on  his  back  and  get  up  for  his  meals  in 
the  kitchen.  He  had  only  one  shirt  left,  one  of 
pink  cotton,  and  that  was  in  holes.  But  he  was 
strongly  built  and  enjoyed  excellent  health. 
When  the  kettle  with  black  gruel  was  taken  from 
the  stove  and  served  to  the  working  men,  Vassily 
used  to  eat  enough  for  three,  and  filled  the  old 
watchman  on  the  estate  with  unceasing  wonder. 
At  nights  Vassily  never  slept.  He  whistled  or 
shouted  from  time  to  time  to  keep  off  thieves,  and 
his  piercing,  cat-like  eyes  saw  clearly  in  the  dark- 
ness. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  101 

One  night  a  company  of  young  lads  from  the 
village  made  their  way  stealthily  to  the  orchard 
to  shake  down  apples  from  the  trees.  Vassily, 
coming  noiselessly  from  behind,  attacked  them; 
they  tried  to  escape,  but  he  took  one  of  them 
prisoner  to  his  master. 

Vassily's  first  shed  stood  at  the  farthest  end  of 
the  orchard,  but  after  the  pears  had  been  picked 
he  had  to  remove  to  another  shed  only  forty  paces 
away  from  the  house  of  his  master.  He  liked 
this  new  place  very  much.  The  whole  day  long 
he  could  see  the  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  en- 
joying themselves;  going  out  for  drives  in  the 
evenings  and  quite  late  at  nights,  playing  the  piano 
or  the  violin,  and  singing  and  dancing.  He  saw 
the  ladies  sitting  with  the  young  students  on  the 
window  sills,  engaged  in  animated  conversation, 
and  then  going  in  pairs  to  walk  the  dark  avenue 
of  lime  trees,  lit  up  only  by  streaks  of  moon- 
light. He  saw  the  servants  running  about  with 
food  and  drink,  he  saw  the  cooks,  the  stewards, 
the  laundresses,  the  gardeners,  the  coachmen,  hard 
at  work  to  supply  their  masters  with  food  and 
drink  and  constant  amusement.  Sometimes  the 
young  people  from  the  master's  house  came  to 
the  shed,  and  Vassily  offered  them  the  choicest 
apples,  juicy  and  red.  The  young  ladies  used  to 
take  large  bites  out  of  the  apples  on  the  spot, 


102  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

praising  their  taste,  and  spoke  French  to  one  an- 
other —  Vassily  quite  understood  it  was  all  about 
him  —  and  asked  Vassily  to  sing  for  them. 

Vassily  felt  the  greatest  admiration  for  his 
master's  mode  of  living,  which  reminded  him  of 
what  he  had  seen  in  Moscow;  and  he  became  more 
and  more  convinced  that  the  only  thing  that  mat- 
tered in  life  was  money.  He  thought  and  thought 
how  to  get  hold  of  a  large  sum  of  money.  He 
remembered  his  former  ways  of  making  small 
profits  whenever  he  could,  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  that  was  altogether  wrong.  Occa- 
sional stealing  is  of  no  use,  he  thought.  He  must 
arrange  a  well-prepared  plan,  and  after  getting 
all  the  information  he  wanted,  carry  out  his  pur- 
pose so  as  to  avoid  detection. 

After  the  feast  of  Nativity  of  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin Mary,  the  last  crop  of  autumn  apples  was 
gathered;  the  master  was  content  with  the  results, 
paid  off  Vassily,  and  gave  him  an  extra  sum  as 
reward  for  his  faithful  service. 

Vassily  put  on  his  new  jacket,  and  a  new  hat 
—  both  were  presents  from  his  master's  son  — 
but  did  not  make  his  way  homewards.  He  hated 
the  very  thought  of  the  vulgar  peasants'  life.  He 
went  back  to  Moscow  in  company  of  some  drunken 
soldiers,  who  had  been  watchmen  in  the  orchard 
together  with   him.      On  his  arrival  there  he   at 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  103 

once  resolved,  under  cover  of  night,  to  break  into 
the  shop  where  he  had  been  employed,  and  beaten, 
and  then  turned  out  by  the  proprietor  without  be- 
ing paid.  He  knew  the  place  well,  and  knew 
where  the  money  was  locked  up.  So  he  bade  the 
soldiers,  who  helped  him,  keep  watch  outside,  and 
forcing  the  courtyard  door  entered  the  shop  and 
took  all  the  money  he  could  lay  his  hands  on. 
All  this  was  done  very  cleverly,  and  no  trace  was 
left  of  the  burglary.  The  money  Vassily  had 
found  in  the  shop  amounted  to  370  roubles.  He 
gave  a  hundred  roubles  to  his  assistants,  and  with 
the  rest  left  for  another  town  where  he  gave  way 
to  dissipation  in  company  of  friends  of  both  sexes. 
The  police  traced  his  movements,  and  when  at 
last  he  was  arrested  and  put  into  prison  he  had 
hardly  anything  left  out  of  the  money  which  he 
had  stolen. 

XIV 

Ivan  Mironov  had  become  a  very  clever,  fear- 
less and  successful  horse-thief.  Afimia,  his  wife, 
who  at  first  used  to  abuse  him  for  his  evil  ways, 
as  she  called  it,  was  now  quite  content  and  felt 
proud  of  her  husband,  who  possessed  a  new  sheep- 
skin coat,  while  she  also  had  a  warm  jacket  and 
a  new  fur  cloak. 


io4  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

In  the  village  and  throughout  the  whole  dis- 
trict every  one  knew  quite  well  that  Ivan  Mironov 
was  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  horse-stealing;  but 
nobody  would  give  him  away,  being  afraid  of  the 
consequences.  Whenever  suspicion  fell  on  him, 
he  managed  to  clear  his  character.  Once  during 
the  night  he  stole  horses  from  the  pasture  ground 
in  the  village  Kolotovka.  He  generally  preferred 
to  steal  horses  from  landowners  or  tradespeople. 
But  this  was  a  harder  job,  and  when  he  had  no 
chance  of  success  he  did  not  mind  robbing  peasants 
too.  In  Kolotovka  he  drove  off  the  horses  with- 
out making  sure  whose  they  were.  He  did  not 
go  himself  to  the  spot,  but  sent  a  young  and  clever 
fellow,  Gerassim,  to  do  the  stealing  for  him.  The 
peasants  only  got  to  know  of  the  theft  at  dawn; 
they  rushed  in  all  directions  to  hunt  for  the  rob- 
bers. The  horses,  meanwhile,  were  hidden  in  a 
ravine  in  the  forest  lands  belonging  to  the  state. 

Ivan  Mironov  intended  to  leave  them  there  till 
the  following  night,  and  then  to  transport  them 
with  the  utmost  haste  a  hundred  miles  away  to  a 
man  he  knew.  He  visited  Gerassim  in  the  forest, 
to  see  how  he  was  getting  on,  brought  him  a  pie 
and  some  vodka,  and  was  returning  home  by  a 
side  track  in  the  forest  where  he  hoped  to  meet 
nobody.  But  by  ill-luck,  he  chanced  on  the  keeper 
of  the  forest,  a  retired  soldier. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  105 

"I  say!  Have  you  been  looking  for  mush- 
rooms?" asked  the  soldier. 

"  There  were  none  to  be  found,"  answered 
Ivan  Mironov,  showing  the  basket  of  lime  bark 
he  had  taken  with  him  in  case  he  might  want  it. 

"  Yes,  mushrooms  are  scarce  this  summer,"  said 
the  soldier.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  pon- 
dered, and  then  went  his  way.  He  clearly  saw 
that  something  was  wrong.  Ivan  Mironov  had 
no  business  whatever  to  take  early  morning  walks 
in  that  forest.  The  soldier  went  back  after  a 
while  and  looked  round.  Suddenly  he  heard  the 
snorting  of  horses  in  the  ravine.  He  made  his 
way  cautiously  to  the  plac3  whence  the  sounds 
came.  The  grass  in  the  ravine  was  trodden 
down,  and  the  marks  of  horses'  hoofs  were  clearly 
to  be  seen.  A  little  further  he  saw  Gerassim, 
who  was  sitting  and  eating  his  meal,  and  the  horses 
tied  to  a  tree. 

The  soldier  ran  to  the  village  and  brought  back 
the  bailiff,  a  police  officer,  and  two  witnesses. 
They  surrounded  on  three  sides  the  spot  where 
Gerassim  was  sitting  and  seized  the  man.  He  did 
not  deny  anything;  but,  being  drunk,  told  them  at 
once  how  Ivan  Mironov  had  given  him  plenty  of 
drink,  and  induced  him  to  steal  the  horses;  he 
also  said  that  Ivan  Mironov  had  promised  to  come 
that  night  in  order  to  take  the  horses  away.     The 


io6  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

peasants  left  the  horses  and  Gerasslm  in  the  ra- 
vine, and  hiding  behind  the  trees  prepared  to  lie  in 
ambush  for  Ivan  Mironov.  When  it  grew  dark, 
they  heard  a  whistle.  Gerassim  answered  it  with 
a  similar  sound.  The  moment  Ivan  Mironov  de- 
scended the  slope,  the  peasants  surrounded  him 
and  brought  him  back  to  the  village.  The  next 
morning  a  crowd  assembled  in  front  of  the  bailiff's 
cottage.  Ivan  Mironov  was  brought  out  and  sub- 
jected to  a  close  examination.  Stepan  Pelageush- 
kine,  a  tall,  stooping  man  with  long  arms,  an 
aquiline  nose,  and  a  gloomy  face  was  the  first  to 
put  questions  to  him.  Stepan  had  terminated  his 
military  service,  and  was  of  a  solitary  turn  of 
mind.  When  he  had  separated  from  his  father, 
and  started  his  own  home,  he  had  his  first  experi- 
ence of  losing  a  horse.  After  that  he  worked  for 
two  years  in  the  mines,  and  made  money  enough 
to  buy  two  horses.  These  two  had  been  stolen  by 
Ivan  Mironov. 

"  Tell  me  where  my  horses  are !  "  shouted 
Stepan,  pale  with  fury,  alternately  looking  at  the 
ground  and  at  Ivan  Mironov's  face. 

Ivan  Mironov  denied  his  guilt.  Then  Stepan 
aimed  so  violent  a  blow  at  his  face  that  he 
smashed  his  nose  and  the  blood  spurted  out. 

"  Tell  the  truth,  I  say,  or  I'll  kill  you !  " 

Ivan  Mironov  kept  silent,  trying  to  avoid  the 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  107 

blows  by  stooping.  Stepan  hit  him  twice  more 
with  his  long  arm.  Ivan  Mironov  remained 
silent,  turning  his  head  backwards  and  forwards. 

"  Beat  him,  all  of  you!  "  cried  the  bailiff,  and 
the  whole  crowd  rushed  upon  Ivan  Mironov.  He 
fell  without  a  word  to  the  ground,  and  then 
shouted, — 

"  Devils,  wild  beasts,  kill  me  if  that's  what  you 
want!      I  am  not  afraid  of  you!  " 

Stepan  seized  a  stone  out  of  those  that  had  been 
collected  for  the  purpose,  and  with  a  heavy  blow 
smashed  Ivan  Mironov's  head. 


XV 

Ivan  Mironov's  murderers  were  brought  to 
trial,  Stepan  Pelageushkine  among  them.  He  had 
a  heavier  charge  to  answer  than  the  others,  all 
the  witnesses  having  stated  that  it  was  he  who 
had  smashed  Ivan  Mironov's  head  with  a  stone. 
Stepan  concealed  nothing  when  in  court.  He  con- 
tented himself  with  explaining  that,  having  been 
robbed  of  his  two  last  horses,  he  had  informed  the 
police.  Now  it  was  comparatively  easy  at  that 
time  to  trace  the  horses  with  the  help  of  profes- 
sional thieves  among  the  gipsies.  But  the  police 
officer  would  not  even  permit  him,  and  no  search 
had  been  ordered. 


io8  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"  Nothing  else  could  be  done  with  such  a  man. 
He  has  ruined  us  all." 

"  But  why  did  not  the  others  attack  him.  It 
was  you  alone  who  broke  his  head  open." 

"  That  is  false.  We  all  fell  upon  him.  The 
village  agreed  to  kill  him.  I  only  gave  the  final 
stroke.  What  is  the  use  of  inflicting  unnecessary 
sufferings  on  a  man?  " 

The  judges  were  astonished  at  Stepan's  wonder- 
ful coolness  in  narrating  the  story  of  his  crime  — 
how  the  peasants  fell  upon  Lvan  Mironov,  and 
how  he  had  given  the  final  stroke.  Stepan  act- 
ually did  not  see  anything  particularly  revolting  in 
this  murder.  During  his  military  service  he  had 
been  ordered  on  one  occasion  to  shoot  a  soldier, 
and,  now  with  regard  to  Ivan  Mironov,  he  saw 
nothing  loathsome  in  it.  "  A  man  shot  is  a  dead 
man  —  that's  all.  It  was  him  to-day,  it  might  be 
me  to-morrow,"  he  thought.  Stepan  was  only 
sentenced  to  one  year's  imprisonment,  which  was 
a  mild  punishment  for  what  he  had  done.  His 
peasant's  dress  was  taken  away  from  him  and  put 
in  the  prison  stores,  and  he  had  a  prison  suit  and 
-  felt  boots  given  to  him  instead.  Stepan  had  never 
had  much  respect  for  the  authorities,  but  now  he 
became  quite  convinced  that  all  the  chiefs,  all  the 
fine  folk,  all  except  the  Czar  —  who  alone  had  pity 
on  the  peasants  and  was  just  —  all  were  robbers 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  109 

who  suck  blood  out  of  the  people.  All  he  heard 
from  the  deported  convicts,  and  those  sentenced  to 
hard  labour,  with  whom  he  had  made  friends  in 
prisons,  confirmed  him  in  his  views.  One  man 
had  been  sentenced  to  hard  labour  for  having  con- 
victed his  superiors  of  a  theft;  another  for  having 
struck  an  official  who  had  unjustly  confiscated  the 
property  of  a  peasant;  a  third  because  he  forged 
bank  notes.  The  well-to-do-people,  the  mer- 
chants, might  do  whatever  they  chose  and  come 
to  no  harm;  bu4-  a  poor  peasant,  for  a  trumpery 
reason  or  for  none  at  all,  was  sent  to  prison  to 
become  food  for  vermin. 

He  had  visits  from  his  wife  while  in  prison. 
Her  life  without  him  was  miserable  enough,  when, 
to  make  it  worse,  her  cottage  was  destroyed  by 
fire.  She  was  completely  ruined,  and  had  to  take 
to  begging  with  her  children.  His  wife's  misery 
embittered  Stepan  still  more.  He  got  on  very 
badly  with  all  the  people  in  the  prison;  was  rude 
to  every  one ;  and  one  day  he  nearly  killed  the  cook 
with  an  axe,  and  therefore  got  an  additional  year 
in  prison.  In  the  course  of  that  year  he  received 
the  news  that  his  wife  was  dead,  and  that  he  had 
no  longer  a  home. 

When  Stepan  had  finished  his  time  in  prison, 
he  was  taken  to  the  prison  stores,  and  his  own 


no  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

dress  was  taken  down  from  the  shelf  and  handed 
to  him. 

"  Where  am  I  to  go  now?  "  he  asked  the  prison 
officer,  putting  on  his  old  dress. 

"  Why,  home." 

"  I  have  no  home.  I  shall  have  to  go  on  the 
road.  Robbery  will  not  be  a  pleasant  occupa- 
tion." 

"  In  that  case  you  will  soon  be  back  here." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that."  ' 

And  Stepan  left  the  prison.  Nevertheless  he 
took  the  road  to  his  own  place.  He  had  nowhere 
else  to  turn. 

On  his  way  he  stopped  for  a  night's  rest  in  an 
inn  that  had  a  public  bar  attached  to  it.  The  inn 
was  kept  by  a  fat  man  from  the  town,  Vladimir, 
and  he  knew  Stepan.  He  knew  that  Stepan  had 
been  put  into  prison  through  ill  luck,  and  did  not 
mind  giving  him  shelter  for  the  night.  He  was 
a  rich  man,  and  had  persuaded  his  neighbour's 
wife  to  leave  her  husband  and  come  to  live  with 
him.  She  lived  in  his  house  as  his  wife,  and 
helped  him  in  his  business  as  well. 

Stepan  knew  all  about  the  innkeeper's  affairs  — 
how  he  had  wronged  the  peasant,  and  how  the 
woman  who  was  living  with  him  had  left  her  hus- 
band. He  saw  her  now  sitting  at  the  table  in  a 
rich  dress,  and  looking  very  hot  as  she  drank  her 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  in 

tea.  With  great  condescension  she  asked  Stepan 
to  have  tea  with  her.  No  other  travellers  were 
stopping  in  the  inn  that  night.  Stepan  was  given 
a  place  in  the  kitchen  where  he  might  sleep.  Ma- 
trena  —  that  was  the  woman's  name  —  cleared  the 
table  and  went  to  her  room.  Stepan  went  to  lie 
down  on  the  large  stove  in  the  kitchen,  but  he 
could  not  sleep,  and  the  wood  splinters  put  on  the 
stove  to  dry  were  crackling  under  him,  as  he  tossed 
from  side  to  side.  He  could  not  help  thinking  of 
his  host's  fat  paunch  protruding  under  the  belt 
of  his  shirt,  which  had  lost  its  colour  from  having 
been  washed  ever  so  many  times.  Would  not  it 
be  a  good  thing  to  make  a  good  clean  incision  in 
that  paunch.     And  that  woman,  too,  he  thought. 

One  moment  he  would  say  to  himself,  "  I  had 
better  go  from  here  to-morrow,  bother  them  all !  " 
But  then  again  Ivan  Mironov  came  back  to  his 
mind,  and  he  went  on  thinking  of  the  innkeeper's 
paunch  and  Matrena's  white  throat  bathed  in  per- 
spiration.     "  Kill  I  must,  and  it  must  be  both !  " 

He  heard  the  cock  crow  for  the  second  time. 
"  I  must  do  it  at  once,  or  dawn  will  be  here."  He 
had  seen  in  the  evening  before  he  went  to  bed  a 
knife  and  an  axe.  He  crawled  down  from  the 
stove,  took  the  knife  and  axe,  and  went  out  of 
the  kitchen  door.  At  that  very  moment  he  heard 
the  lock   of   the    entrance   door  open.      The    inn- 


ii2  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

keeper  was  going  out  of  the  house  to  the  court- 
yard. It  all  turned  out  contrary  to  what  Stepan 
desired.  He  had  no  opportunity  of  using  the 
knife;  he  just  swung  the  axe  and  split  the  innkeep- 
er's head  in  two.  The  man  tumbled  down  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  then  on  the  ground. 

Stepan  stepped  into  the  bedroom.  Matrena 
jumped  out  of  bed,  and  remained  standing  by  its 
side.     With  the  same  axe  Stepan  killed  her  also. 

Then  he  lighted  the  candle,  took  the  money  out 
of  the  desk,  and  left  the  house. 


XVI 

In  a  small  district  town,  some  distance  away  from 
the  other  buildings,  an  old  man,  a  former  official, 
who  had  taken  to  drink,  lived  in  his  own  house 
with  his  two  daughters  and  his  son-in-law.  The 
married  daughter  was  also  addicted  to  drink  and 
led  a  bad  life,  and  it  was  the  elder  daughter,  the 
widow  Maria  Semenovna,  a  wrinkled  woman  of 
fifty,  who  supported  the  whole  family.  She  had 
a  pension  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  roubles  a  year, 
and  the  family  lived  on  this.  Maria  Semenovna 
did  all  the  work  in  the  house,  looked  after  the 
drunken  old  father,  who  was  very  weak,  attended 
to  her  sister's  child,  and  managed  all  the  cooking 
and  the  washing  of  the  family.     And,  as  is  al- 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  113 

ways  the  case,  whatever  there  was  to  do,  she  was 
expected  to  do  it,  and  was,  moreover,  continually 
scolded  by  all  the  three  people  in  the  house;  her 
brother-in-law  used  even  to  beat  her  when  he  was 
drunk.  She  bore  it  all  patiently,  and  as  is  also 
always  the  case,  the  more  work  she  had  to  face, 
the  quicker  she  managed  to  get  through  it.  She 
helped  the  poor,  sacrificing  her  own  wants;  she 
gave  them  her  clothes,  and  was  a  ministering 
angel  to  the  sick. 

Once  the  lame,  crippled  village  tailor  was  work- 
ing in  Maria  Semenovna's  house.  He  had  to 
mend  her  old  father's  coat,  and  to  mend  and  re- 
pair Maria  Semenovna's  fur-jacket  for  her  to  wear 
in  winter  when  she  went  to  market. 

The  lame  tailor  was  a  clever  man,  and  a  keen 
observer:  he  had  seen  many  different  people  ow- 
ing to  his  profession,  and  was  fond  of  reflection, 
condemned  as  he  was  to  a  sedentary  life. 

Having  worked  a  week  at  Maria  Semenovna's, 
he  wondered  greatly  about  her  life.  One  day  she 
came  to  the  kitchen,  where  he  was  sitting  with  his 
work,  to  wash  a  towel,  and  began  to  ask  him  how 
he  was  getting  on.  He  told  her  of  the  wrong  he 
had  suffered  from  his  brother,  and  how  he  now 
lived  on  his  own  allotment  of  land,  separated  from 
that  of  his  brother. 

"  I  thought  I  should  have  been  better  off  that 


ii4  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

way,"  he  said.  "  But  I  am  now  just  as  poor  as 
before." 

"  It  is  much  better  never  to  change,  but  to  take 
life  as  it  comes,"  said  Maria  Semenovna.  "  Take 
life  as  it  comes,"  she  repeated. 

"  Why,  I  wonder  at  you,  Maria  Semenovna," 
said  the  lame  tailor.  "  You  alone  do  the  work, 
and  you  are  so  good  to  everybody.  But  they 
don't  repay  you  in  kind,  I  see." 

Maria  Semenovna  did  not  utter  a  word  in  an- 
swer. 

"  I  dare  say  you  have  found  out  in  books  that 
we  are  rewarded  in  heaven  for  the  good  we  do 
here." 

"  We  don't  know  that.  But  we  must  try  to  do 
the  best  we  can." 

"  Is  it  said  so  in  books?  " 

"  In  books  as  well,"  she  said,  and  read  to  him 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  The  tailor  was  much 
impressed.  When  he  had  been  paid  for  his  job 
and  gone  home,  he  did  not  cease  to  think  about 
Maria  Semenovna,  both  what  she  had  said  and 
what  she  had  read  to  him. 

XVII 

Peter  Nikolaevich  Sventizky's  views  of  the 
peasantry  had  now  changed  for  the  worse,  and  the 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  115 

peasants  had  an  equally  bad  opinion  of  him.  In 
the  course  of  a  single  year  they  felled  twenty-seven 
oaks  in  his  forest,  and  burnt  a  barn  which  had  not 
"been  insured.  Peter  Nikolaevich  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  there  was  no  getting  on  with  the 
people  around  him. 

At  that  very  time  the  landowner,  Liventsov, 
was  trying  to  find  a  manager  for  his  estate,  and 
the  Marshal  of  the  Nobility  recommended  Peter 
Nikolaevich  as  the  ablest  man  in  the  district  in 
the  management  of  land.  The  estate  owned  by 
Liventsov  was  an  extremely  large  one,  but  there 
was  no  revenue  to  be  got  out  of  it,  as  the  peasants 
appropriated  all  its  wealth  to  their  own  profit. 
Peter  Nikolaevich  undertook  to  bring  everything 
into  order;  rented  out  his  own  land  to  somebody 
else;  and  settled  with  his  wife  on  the  Liventsov 
estate,  in  a  distant  province  on  the  river  Volga. 

Peter  Nikolaevich  was  always  fond  of  order, 
and  wanted  things  to  be  regulated  by  law;  and 
now  he  felt  less  able  of  allowing  those  raw  and 
rude  peasants  to  take  possession,  quite  illegally 
too,  of  property  that  did  not  belong  to  them.  He 
was  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  giving  them  a  good 
lesson,  and  set  seriously  to  work  at  once.  One 
peasant  was  sent  to  prison  for  stealing  wood;  to 
another  he  gave  a  thrashing  for  not  having  made 
way  for  him  on  the  road  with  his  cart,  and  for  not 


u6  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

having  lifted  his  cap  to  salute  him.  As  to  the 
pasture  ground  which  was  a  subject  of  dispute, 
and  was  considered  by  the  peasants  as  their  prop- 
erty, Peter  Nikolaevich  informed  the  peasants 
that  any  of  their  cattle  grazing  on  it  would  be 
driven  away  by  him. 

The  spring  came  and  the  peasants,  just  as  they 
had  done  in  previous  years,  drove  their  cattle  on 
to  the  meadows  belonging  to  the  landowner. 
Peter  Nikolaevich  called  some  of  the  men  work- 
ing on  the  estate  and  ordered  them  to  drive  the 
cattle  into  his  yard.  The  peasants  were  working 
in  the  fields,  and,  disregarding  the  screaming  of 
the  women,  Peter  Nikolaevich's  men  succeeded  in 
driving  in  the  cattle.  When  they  came  home  the 
peasants  went  in  a  crowd  to  the  cattle-yard  on  the 
estate,  and  asked  for  their  cattle.  Peter  Nikolae- 
vich came  out  to  talk  to  them  with  a  gun  slung  on 
his  shoulder;  he  had  just  returned  from  a  ride  of 
inspection.  He  told  them  that  he  would  not  let 
them  have  their  cattle  unless  they  paid  a  fine  of 
fifty  kopeks  for  each  of  the  horned  cattle,  and 
twenty  kopeks  for  each  sheep.  The  peasants 
loudly  declared  that  the  pasture  ground  was  their 
property,  because  their  fathers  and  grandfathers 
had  used  it,  and  protested  that  he  had  no  right 
whatever  to  lay  hand  on  their  cattle. 

"  Give  back  our  cattle,  or  you  will  regret  it," 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  117 

said  an  old  man  coming  up  to  Peter  Nikolaevich. 

"How  shall  I  regret  it?"  cried  Peter  Niko- 
laevich, turning  pale,  and  coming  close  to  the  old 
man. 

"  Give  them  back,  you  villain,  and  don't  pro- 
voke us." 

"  What?  "  cried  Peter  Nikolaevich,  and  slapped 
the  old  man  in  the  face. 

"  You  dare  to  strike  me?  Come  along,  you 
fellows,  let  us  take  back  our  cattle  by  force." 

The  crowd  drew  close  to  him.  Peter  Niko- 
laevich tried  to  push  his  way  through  them,  but 
the  peasants  resisted  him.      Again  he  tried  force. 

His  gun,  accidentally  discharged  in  the  melee, 
killed  one  of  the  peasants.  Instantly  the  fight 
began.  Peter  Nikolaevich  was  trodden  down, 
and  five  minutes  later  his  mutilated  body  was 
dragged  into  the  ravine. 

The  murderers  were  tried  by  martial  law,  and 
two  of  them  sentenced  to  the  gallows. 

XVIII 

In  the  village  where  the  lame  tailor  lived,  in  the 
Zemliansk  district  of  the  Voronesh  province,  five 
rich  peasants  hired  from  the  landowner  a  hundred 
and  five  acres  of  rich  arable  land,  black  as  tar,  and 
let  it  out  on  lease  to  the  rest  of  the  peasants  at 


u8  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

fifteen  to  eighteen  roubles  an  acre.  Not  one  acre 
was  given  under  twelve  roubles.  They  got  a  very 
profitable  return,  and  the  five  acres  which  were 
left  to  each  of  their  company  practically  cost  them 
nothing.  One  of  the  five  peasants  died,  and  the 
lame  tailor  received  an  offer  to  take  his  place. 

When  they  began  to  divide  the  land,  the  tailor 
gave  up  drinking  vodka,  and,  being  consulted  as 
to  how  much  land  was  to  be  divided,  and  to  whom 
it  should  be  given,  he  proposed  to  give  allotments 
to  all  on  equal  terms,  not  taking  from  the  tenants 
more  than  was  due  for  each  piece  of  land  out  of 
the  sum  paid  to  the  landowner. 

"Why  so?" 

"  We  are  no  heathens,  I  should  think,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  all  very  well  for  the  masters  to  be  unfair, 
but  we  are  true  Christians.  We  must  do  as  God 
bids.      Such  is  the  law  of  Christ." 

"  Where  have  you  got  that  law  from?  " 

"  It  is  in  the  Book,  in  the  Gospels.  Just  come 
to  me  on  Sunday.  I  will  read  you  a  few  passages, 
and  we  will  have  a  talk  afterwards." 

They  did  not  all  come  to  him  on  Sunday,  but 
three  came,  and  he  began  reading  to  them. 

He  read  five  chapters  of  St.  Matthew's  Gospel, 
and  they  talked.  One  man  only,  Ivan  Chouev, 
accepted  the  lesson  and  carried  it  out  completely, 
following  the  rule  of  Christ  in  everything  from 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  119 

that  day.  His  family  did  the  same.  Out  of  the 
arable  land  he  took  only  what  was  his  due,  and 
refused  to  take  more. 

The  lame  tailor  and  Ivan  had  people  calling  on 
them,  and  some  of  these  people  began  to  grasp 
the  meaning  of  the  Gospels,  and  in  consequence 
gave  up  smoking,  drinking,  swearing,  and  using 
bad  language  and  tried  to  help  one  another. 
They  also  ceased  to  go  to  church,  and  took  their 
ikons  to  the  village  priest,  saying  they  did  not 
want  them  any  more.  The  priest  was  frightened, 
and  reported  what  had  occurred  to  the  bishop. 
The  bishop  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  At  last 
he  resolved  to  send  the  archimandrite  Missael  to 
the  village,  the  one  who  had  formerly  been  Mitia 
Smokovnikov's  teacher  of  religion. 

XIX 

Asking  Father  Missael  on  his  arrival  to  take  a 
seat,  the  bishop  told  him  what  had  happened  in 
his   diocese. 

"  It  all  comes  from  weakness  of  spirit  and  from 
ignorance.  You  are  a  learned  man,  and  I  rely  on 
you.  Go  to  the  village,  call  the  parishioners  to- 
gether, and  convince  them  of  their  error." 

"  If  your  Grace  bids  me  go,  and  you  give  me 
your  blessing,   I   will   do  my  best,"   said   Father 


i20  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

Missael.  He  was  very  pleased  with  the  task  en- 
trusted to  him.  Every  opportunity  he  could  find 
to  demonstrate  the  firmness  of  his  faith  was  a 
boon  to  him.  In  trying  to  convince  others  he  was 
chiefly  intent  on  persuading  himself  that  he  was 
really  a  firm  believer. 

"  Do  your  best.  I  am  greatly  distressed  about 
my  flock,"  said  the  bishop,  leisurely  taking  a  cup 
with  his  white  plump  hands  from  the  servant  who 
brought  in  the  tea. 

"  Why  is  there  only  one  kind  of  jam?  Bring 
another,"  he  said  to  the  servant.  "  I  am  greatly 
distressed,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  Father  Mis- 
sael. 

Missael  earnestly  desired  to  prove  his  zeal; 
but,  being  a  man  of  small  means,  he  asked  to  be 
paid  for  the  expenses  of  his  journey;  and  being 
afraid  of  the  rough  people  who  might  be  ill-dis- 
posed towards  him,  he  also  asked  the  bishop  to  get 
him  an  order  from  the  governor  of  the  province, 
so  that  the  local  police  might  help  him  in  case  of 
need.  The  bishop  complied  with  his  wishes,  and 
Missael  got  his  things  ready  with  the  help  of  his 
servant  and  his  cook.  They  furnished  him  with 
a  case  full  of  wine,  and  a  basket  with  the  victuals 
he  might  need  in  going  to  such  a  lonely  place. 
Fully  provided  with  all  he  wanted,  he  started  for 
the  village  to  which  he  was  commissioned.     He 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  121 

was  pleasantly  conscious  of  the  importance  of  his 
mission.  All  his  doubts  as  to  his  own  faith  passed 
away,  and  he  was  now  fully  convinced  of  its  real- 
ity. 

His  thoughts,  far  from  being  concerned  with 
the  real  foundation  of  his  creed  —  this  was  ac- 
cepted as  an  axiom  —  were  occupied  with  the  argu- 
ments used  against  the  forms  of  worship. 

XX 

The  village  priest  and  his  wife  received  Father 
Missael  with  great  honours,  and  the  next  day  after 
he  had  arrived  the  parishioners  were  invited  to 
assemble  in  the  church.  Missael  in  a  new  silk 
cassock,  with  a  large  cross  on  his  chest,  and  his 
long  hair  carefully  combed,  ascended  the  pulpit; 
the  priest  stood  at  his  side,  the  deacons  and  the 
choir  at  a  little  distance  behind  him,  and  the  side 
entrances  were  guarded  by  the  police.  The  dis- 
senters also  came   in  their  dirty  sheepskin  coats. 

After  the  service  Missael  delivered  a  sermon, 
admonishing  the  dissenters  to  return  to  the  bosom 
of  their  mother,  the  Church,  threatening  them 
with  the  torments  of  hell,  and  promising  full  for- 
giveness to  those  who  would  repent. 

The  dissenters  kept  silent  at  first.  Then,  be- 
ing asked  questions,  they  gave  answers.     To  the 


122  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

question  why  they  dissented,  they  said  that  their 
chief  reason  was  the  fact  that  the  Church  wor- 
shipped gods  made  of  wood,  which,  far  from  be- 
ing ordained,  were  condemned  by  the  Scriptures. 

When  asked  by  Missael  whether  they  actually 
considered  the  holy  ikons  to  be  mere  planks  of 
wood,  Chouev  answered, — 

"  Just  look  at  the  back  of  any  ikon  you  choose 
and  you  will  see  what  they  are  made  of." 

When  asked  why  they  turned  against  the  priests, 
their  answer  was  that  the  Scripture  says:  "  As  you 
have  received  it  without  fee,  so  you  must  give  it 
to  the  others;  whereas  the  priests  require  pay- 
ment for  the  grace  they  bestow  by  the  sacraments." 
To  all  attempts  which  Missael  made  to  oppose 
them  by  arguments  founded  on  Holy  Writ,  the 
tailor  and  Ivan  Chouev  gave  calm  but  very  firm 
answers,  contradicting  his  assertions  by  appeal  to 
the  Scriptures,  which  they  knew  uncommonly  well. 

Missael  got  angry  and  threatened  them  with 
persecution  by  the  authorities.  Their  answer 
was :  It  is  said,  I  have  been  persecuted  and  so  will 
you  be. 

The  discussion  came  to  nothing,  and  all  would 
have  ended  well  if  Missael  had  not  preached  the 
next  day  at  mass,  denouncing  the  wicked  seducers 
of  the  faithful  and  saying  that  they  deserved  the 
worst  punishment.      Coming  out  of  the  church,  the 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  123 

crowd  of  peasants  began  to  consult  whether  it 
would  not  be  well  to  give  the  infidels  a  good  lesson 
for  disturbing  the  minds  of  the  community.  The 
same  day,  just  when  Missael  was  enjoying  some 
salmon  and  gangfish,  dining  at  the  village  priest's 
in  company  with  the  inspector,  a  violent  brawl 
arose  in  the  village.  The  peasants  came  in  a 
crowd  to  Chouev's  cottage,  and  waited  for  the 
dissenters  to  come  out  in  order  to  give  them  a 
thrashing. 

The  dissenters  assembled  in  the  cottage  num- 
bered about  twenty  men  and  women.  Missael's 
sermon  and  the  attitude  of  the  orthodox  peasants, 
together  with  their  threats,  aroused  in  the  mind 
of  the  dissenters  angry  feelings,  to  which  they  had 
before  been  strangers.  It  was  near  evening,  the 
women  had  to  go  and  milk  the  cows,  and  the 
peasants  were  still  standing  and  waiting  at  the 
door. 

A  boy  who  stepped  out  of  the  door  was  beaten 
and  driven  back  into  the  house.  The  people 
within  began  consulting  what  was  to  be  done,  and 
could  come  to  no  agreement.  The  tailor  said, 
"  We  must  bear  whatever  is  done  to  us,  and  not 
resist."  Chouev  replied  that  if  they  decided  on 
that  course  they  would,  all  of  them,  be  beaten  to 
death.  In  consequence,  he  seized  a  poker  and 
went  out  of  the  house.     "Come!"  he  shouted, 


i24  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"  let  us  follow  the  law  of  Moses!  "  And,  falling 
upon  the  peasants,  he  knocked  out  one  man's  eye, 
and  in  the  meanwhile  all  those  who  had  been  in 
his  house  contrived  to  get  out  and  make  their  way 
home. 

Chouev  was  thrown  into  prison   and  charged 
with  sedition  and  blasphemy. 

XXI 

Two  years  previous  to  those  events  a  strong  and 
handsome  young  girl  of  an  eastern  type,  Katia 
Turchaninova,  came  from  the  Don  military  settle- 
ments to  St.  Petersburg  to  study  in  the  university 
college  for  women.  In  that  town  she  met  a  stu- 
dent, Turin,  the  son  of  a  district  governor  in  the 
Simbirsk  province,  and  fell  in  love  with  him.  But 
her  love  was  not  of  the  ordinary  type,  and  she 
had  no  desire  to  become  his  wife  and  the  mother 
of  his  children.  He  was  a  dear  comrade  to  her, 
and  their  chief  bond  of  union  was  a  feeling  of  re- 
volt they  had  in  common,  as  well  as  the  hatred 
they  bore,  not  only  to  the  existing  forms  of  gov- 
ernment, but  to  all  those  who  represented  that 
government.  They  had  also  in  common  the  sense 
that  they  both  excelled  their  enemies  in  culture, 
in  brains,  as  well  as  in  morals.  Katia  Turchan- 
inova was  a  gifted  girl,  possessed  of  a  good  mem- 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  125 

ory,  by  means  of  which  she  easily  mastered  the  lec- 
tures she  attended.  She  was  successful  in  her  ex- 
aminations, and,  apart  from  that,  read  all  the  new- 
est books.  She  was  certain  that  her  vocation  was 
not  to  bear  and  rear  children,  and  even  looked  on 
such  a  task  with  disgust  and  contempt.  She 
thought  herself  chosen  by  destiny  to  destroy  the 
present  government,  which  was  fettering  the  best 
abilities  of  the  nation,  and  to  reveal  to  the  people 
a  higher  standard  of  life,  inculcated  by  the  latest 
writers  of  other  countries.  She  was  handsome,  a 
little  inclined  to  stoutness:  she  had  a  good  com- 
plexion, shining  black  eyes,  abundant  black  hair. 
She  inspired  the  men  she  knew  with  feelings  she 
neither  wished  nor  had  time  to  share,  busy  as  she 
was  with  propaganda  work,  which  consisted  chiefly 
in  mere  talking.  She  was  not  displeased,  how- 
ever, to  inspire  these  feelings;  and,  without  dress- 
ing too  smartly,  did  not  neglect  her  appearance. 
She  liked  to  be  admired,  as  it  gave  her  opportuni- 
ties of  showing  how  little  she  prized  what  was 
valued  so  highly  by  other  women. 

In  her  views  concerning  the  method  of  fighting 
the  government  she  went  further  than  the  majority 
of  her  comrades,  and  than  her  friend  Turin;  all 
means,  she  taught,  were  justified  in  such  a  struggle, 
not  excluding  murder.  And  yet,  with  all  her  revo- 
lutionary ideas,   Katia  Turchaninova  was  in  her 


126  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

soul  a  very  kind  girl,  ready  to  sacrifice  herself  for 
the  welfare  and  the  happiness  of  other  people, 
and  sincerely  pleased  when  she  could  do  a  kind- 
ness to  anybody,  a  child,  an  old  person,  or  an  ani- 
mal. 

She  went  in  the  summer  to  stay  with  a  friend,  a 
schoolmistress  in  a  small  town  on  the  river  Volga. 
Turin  lived  near  that  town,  on  his  father's  estate. 
He  often  came  to  see  the  two  girls;  they  gave  each 
other  books  to  read,  and  had  long  discussions, 
expressing  their  common  indignation  with  the  state 
of  affairs  in  the  country.  The  district  doctor,  a 
friend  of  theirs,  used  also  to  join  them  on  many  oc- 
casions. 

The  estate  of  the  Turins  was  situated  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Liventsov  estate,  the  one 
that  was  entrusted  to  the  management  of  Peter 
Nikolaevich  Sventizky.  Soon  after  Peter  Niko- 
laevich  had  settled  there,  and  begun  to  en- 
force order,  young  Turin,  having  observed  an  in- 
dependent tendency  in  the  peasants  on  the  Livent- 
sov estate,  as  well  as  their  determination  to  up- 
hold their  rights,  became  interested  in  them.  He 
came  often  to  the  village  to  talk  with  the  men, 
and  developed  his  socialistic  theories,  insisting  par- 
ticularly on  the  nationalisation  of  the  land. 

After  Peter  Nikolaevich  had  been  murdered, 
and  the  murderers  sent  to  trial,  the  revolutionary 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  127 

group  of  the  small  town  boiled  over  with  indigna- 
tion, and  did  not  shrink  from  openly  expressing 
it.  The  fact  of  Turin's  visits  to  the  village  and 
his  propaganda  work  among  the  students,  became 
known  to  the  authorities  during  the  trial.  A 
search  was  made  in  his  house;  and,  as  the  police 
found  a  few  revolutionary  leaflets  among  his  ef- 
fects, he  was  arrested  and  transferred  to  prison 
in  St.  Petersburg. 

Katia  Turchaninova  followed  him  to  the  metrop- 
olis, and  vvent  to  visit  him  in  prison.  She  was 
not  admitted  on  the  day  she  came,  and  was  told 
to  come  on  the  day  fixed  by  regulations  for  visits 
to  the  prisoners.  When  that  day  arrived,  and 
she  was  finally  allowed  to  see  him,  she  had  to  talk 
to  him  through  two  gratings  separating  the  pris- 
oner from  his  visitor.  This  visit  increased  her  in- 
dignation against  the  authorities.  And  her  feel- 
ings become  ail  the  more  revolutionary  after  a 
visit  she  paid  to  the  office  of  a  gendarme  officer 
who  had  to  deal  with  the  Turin  case.  The  offi- 
cer, a  handsome  man,  seemed  obviously  disposed 
to  grant  her  exceptional  favours  in  visiting  the 
prisoner,  if  she  would  allow  him  to  make  love  to 
her.  Disgusted  with  him,  she  appealed  to  the 
chief  of  police.  He  pretended  —  just  as  the  officer 
did  when  talking  officially  to  her — to  be  power- 
less himself,   and  to  depend   entirely  on   orders 


128  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

coming  from  the  minister  of  state.  She  sent  a 
petition  to  the  minister  asking  for  an  interview, 
which  was  refused. 

Then  she  resolved  to  do  a  desperate  thing  and 
bought  a  revolver. 

XXII 

The  minister  was  receiving  petitioners  at  the  usual 
hour  appointed  for  the  reception.  He  had  talked 
successively  to  three  of  them,  and  now  a  pretty 
young  woman  with  black  eyes,  who  was  holding 
a  petition  in  her  left  hand,  approached.  The 
minister's  eyes  gleamed  when  he  saw  how  attract- 
ive the  petitioner  was,  but  recollecting  his  high  po- 
sition he  put  on  a  serious  face. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  he  asked,  coming  down 
to  where  she  stood.  Without  answering  his  ques- 
tion the  young  woman  quickly  drew  a  revolve* 
from  under  her  cloak  and  aiming  it  at  the  min- 
ister's chest  fired  —  but  missed  him. 

The  minister  rushed  at  her,  trying  to  seize  her 
hand,  but  she  escaped,  and  taking  a  step  back,  fired 
a  second  time.  The  minister  ran  ou-t  of  the  room. 
The  woman  was  immediately  seized.  She  was 
trembling  violently,  and  could  not  utter  a  single 
word;  after  a  while  she  suddenly  burst  into  a  hys- 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  129 

terical  laugh.  The  minister  was  not  even 
wounded. 

That  woman  was  Katia  Turchaninova.  She 
was  put  into  the  prison  of  preliminary  detention. 
The  minister  received  congratulations  and  marks 
of  sympathy  from  the  highest  quarters,  and  even 
from  the  emperor  himself,  who  appointed  a  com- 
mission to  investigate  the  plot  that  had  led  to  the 
attempted  assassination.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
there  was  no  plot  whatever,  but  the  police  officials 
and  the  detectives  set  to  work  with  the  utmost  zeal 
to  discover  all  the  threads  of  the  non-existing  con- 
spiracy. They  did  everything  to  deserve  the  fees 
they  were  paid;  they  got  up  in  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning,  searched  one  house  after  another, 
took  copies  of  papers  and  of  books  they  found, 
read  diaries,  personal  letters,  made  extracts  from 
them  on  the  very  best  notepaper  and  in  beautiful 
handwriting,  interrogated  Katia  Turchaninova 
ever  so  many  times,  and  confronted  her  with  all 
those  whom  they  suspected  of  conspiracy,  in  order 
to  extort  from  her  the  names  of  her  accomplices. 

The  minister,  a  good-natured  man  at  heart,  was 
sincerely  sorry  for  the  pretty  girl.  But  he  said 
to  himself  that  he  was  bound  to  consider  his  high 
state  duties  imposed  upon  him,  even  though  they 
did  not  imply  much  work  and  trouble.  So,  when 
his  former  colleague,  a  chamberlain  and  a  friend 


i3o  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

of  the  Turins,  met  him  at  a  court  ball  and  tried  to 
rouse  his  pity  for  Turin  and  the  girl  Turchani- 
nova,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  stretching  the  red 
ribbon  on  his  white  waistcoat,  and  said:  "  Je  ne 
demanderais  pas  mieux  que  de  relacher  cette  pau- 
vre  fillette,  mats  vous  savez  le  devoir."  And  in 
the  meantime  Katia  Turchaninova  was  kept  in 
prison.  She  was  at  times  in  a  quiet  mood,  com- 
municated with  her  fellow-prisoners  by  knocking 
on  the  walls,  and  read  the  books  that  were  sent 
to  her.  But  then  came  days  when  she  had  fits  of 
desperate  fury,  knocking  with  her  fists  against 
the  wall,  screaming  and  laughing  like  a  mad- 
woman. 

XXIII 

One  day  Maria  Semenovna  came  home  from  the 
treasurer's  office,  where  she  had  received  her  pen- 
sion. On  her  way  she  met  a  schoolmaster,  a 
friend  of  hers. 

"  Good  day,  Maria  Semenovna  !  Have  you  re- 
ceived your  money?"  the  schoolmaster  asked,  in 
a  loud  voice  from  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

"  I  have,"  answered  Maria  Semenovna.  "  But 
it  was  not  much;  just  enough  to  fill  the  holes." 

"  Oh,  there  must  be  some  tidy  pickings  out 
of  such  a  lot  of  money,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
and  passed  on,  after  having  said  good-bye. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  131 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Maria  Semenovna.  While 
she  was  looking  at  her  friend,  she  met  a  tall  man 
face  to  face,  who  had  very  long  arms  and  a  stern 
look  in  his  eyes.  Coming  to  her  house,  she  was 
very  startled  on  again  seeing  the  same  man  with 
the  long  arms,  who  had  evidently  followed  her. 
He  remained  standing  another  moment  after  she 
had  gone  in,  then  turned  and  walked  away. 

Maria  Semenovna  felt  somewhat  frightened  at 
first.  But  when  she  had  entered  the  house,  and 
had  given  her  father  and  her  nephew  Fedia  the 
presents  she  had  brought  for  them,  and  she  had 
patted  the  dog  Treasure,  who  whined  with  joy, 
she  forgot  her  fears.  She  gave  the  money  to  her 
father  and  began  to  work,  as  there  was  always 
plenty  for  her  to  do. 

The  man  she  met  face  to  face  was  Stepan. 

After  he  had  killed  the  innkeeper,  he  did  not 
return  to  town.  Strange  to  say,  he  was  not  sorry 
to  have  committed  that  murder.  His  mind  went 
back  to  the  murdered  man  over  and  over  again 
during  the  following  day;  and  he  liked  the  recol- 
lection of  having  done  the  thing  so  skilfully,  so 
cleverly,  that  nobody  would  ever  discover  it,  and 
he  would  not  therefore  be  prevented  from  mur- 
dering other  people  in  the  same  way.  Sitting  in 
the  public-house  and  having  his  tea,  he  looked  at 
the  people  around  him  with  the  same  thought  ho 


w 


i32  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

he  should  murder  them.  In  the  evening  he  called 
at  a  carter's,  a  man  from  his  village,  to  spend  the 
night  at  his  house.  The  carter  was  not  in.  He 
said  he  would  wait  for  him,  and  in  the  meanwhile 
began  talking  to  the  carter's  wife.  But  when  she 
moved  to  the  stove,  with  her  back  turned  to  him, 
the  idea  entered  his  mind  to  kill  her.  He  mar- 
velled at  himself  at  first,  and  shook  his  head;  but 
the  next  moment  he  seized  the  knife  he  had  hid- 
den in  his  boot,  knocked  the  woman  down  on  the 
floor,  and  cut  her  throat.  When  the  children  be- 
gan to  scream,  he  killed  them  also  and  went  away. 
He  did  not  look  out  for  another  place  to  spend 
the  night,  but  at  once  left  the  town.  In  a  village 
some  distance  away  he  went  to  the  inn  and  slept 
there.  The  next  day  he  returned  to  the  district 
town,  and  there  he  overheard  in  the  street  Maria 
Semenovna's  talk  with  the  schoolmaster.  Her 
look  frightened  him,  but  yet  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  creep  into  her  house,  and  rob  her  of  the  money 
she  had  received.  When  the  night  came  he  broke 
the  lock  and  entered  the  house.  The  first  person 
who  heard  his  steps  was  the  younger  daughter, 
the  married  one.  She  screamed.  Stepan  stabbed 
her  immediately  with  his  knife.  Her  husband 
woke  up  and  fell  upon  Stepan,  seized  him  by  his 
throat,  and  struggled  with  him  desperately.  But 
Stepan  was  the   stronger  man   and  overpowered 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  133 

him.  After  murdering  him,  Stepan,  excited  by 
the  long  fight,  stepped  into  the  next  room  be- 
hind a  partition.  That  was  Maria  Semenovna's 
bedroom.  She  rose  in  her  bed,  looked  at 
Stepan  with  her  mild  frightened  eyes,  and  crossed 
herself. 

Once  more  her  look  scared  Stepan.  He 
dropped  his  eyes. 

"Where  is  your  money?"  he  asked,  without 
raising  his  face. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Where  is  the  money?"  asked  Stepan  again, 
showing  her  his  knife. 

"  How  can  you     .     .     ."  she  said. 

"  You  will  see  how." 

Stepan  came  close  to  her,  in  order  to  seize  her 
hands  and  prevent  her  struggling  with  him,  but 
she  did  not  even  try  to  lift  her  arms  or  offer  any 
resistance;  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  chest,  and 
sighed  heavily. 

"  Oh,  what  a  great  sin !  "  she  cried.  "  How 
can  you  I  Have  mercy  on  yourself.  To  destroy 
somebody's  soul  .  .  .  and  worse,  your 
own!     .     .     ." 

Stepan  could  not  stand  her  voice  any  longer,  and 
drew  his  knife  sharply  across  her  throat.  "  Stop 
that  talk!  "  he  said.  She  fell  back  with  a  hoarse 
cry,  and  the  pillow  was  stained  with  blood.     He 


i34  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

turned  away,  and  went  round  the  rooms  in  order 
to  collect  all  he  thought  worth  taking.  Having 
made  a  bundle  of  the  most  valuable  things,  he 
lighted  a  cigarette,  sat  down  for  a  while,  brushed 
his  clothes,  and  left  the  house.  He  thought  this 
murder  would  not  matter  to  him  more  than  those 
he  had  committed  before;  but  before  he  got  a 
night's  lodging,  he  felt  suddenly  so  exhausted  that 
he  could  not  walk  any  farther.  He  stepped  down 
into  the  gutter  and  remained  lying  there  the  rest 
of  the  night,  and  the  next  day  and  the  next  night. 


PART  SECOND 

I 

The  whole  time  he  was  lying  in  the  gutter  Stepan 
saw  continually  before  his  eyes  the  thin,  kindly, 
and  frightened  face  of  Maria  Semenovna,  and 
seemed  to  hear  her  voice.  "  How  can  you?  "  she 
went  on  saying  in  his  imagination,  with  her  pe- 
culiar lisping  voice.  Stepan  saw  over  again  and 
over  again  before  him  all  he  had  done  to  her.  In 
horror  he  shut  his  eyes,  and  shook  his  hairy  head, 
to  drive  away  these  thoughts  and  recollections. 
For  a  moment  he  would  get  rid  of  them,  but  in 
their  place  horrid  black  faces  with  red  eyes  ap- 
peared and  frightened  him  continuously.  They 
grinned  at  him,  and  kept  repeating,  "  Now  you 
have  done  away  with  her  you  must  do  away  with 
yourself,  or  we  will  not  leave  you  alone."  He 
opened  his  eyes,  and  again  he  saw  her  and  heard 
her  voice;  and  felt  an  immense  pity  for  her  and 
a  deep  horror  and  disgust  with  himself.  Once 
more  he  shut  his  eyes,  and  the  black  faces  reap- 
peared. Towards  the  evening  of  the  next  day 
he  rose  and  went,  with  hardly  any  strength  left, 
i.35 


136  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

to  a  public-house.  There  he  ordered  a  drink,  and 
repeated  his  demands  over  and  over  again,  but 
no  quantity  of  liquor  could  make  him  intoxicated. 
He  was  sitting  at  a  table,  and  swallowed  silently 
one  glass  after  another. 

A  police  officer  came  in.  "  Who  are  you?  "  he 
asked  Stepan. 

"  I  am  the  man  who  murdered  all  the  Dobrot- 
vorov  people  last  night,"   he  answered. 

He  was  arrested,  bound  with  ropes,  and  brought 
to  the  nearest  police-station;  the  next  day  he  was 
transferred  to  the  prison  in  the  town.  The  in- 
spector of  the  prison  recognised  him  as  an  old  in- 
mate, and  a  very  turbulent  one;  and,  hearing  that 
he  had  now  become  a  real  criminal,  accosted  him 
very  harshly. 

"  You  had  better  be  quiet  here,"  he  said  in  a 
hoarse  voice,  frowning,  and  protruding  his  lower 
jaw.  "  The  moment  you  don't  behave,  I'll  flog 
you  to  death!  Don't  try  to  escape  —  I  will  see 
to  that!  " 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  escape,"  said  Stepan,  drop- 
ping his  eyes.  "  I  surrendered  of  my  own  free 
will." 

"Shut  up!  You  must  look  straight  into  your 
superior's  eyes  when  you  talk  to  him,"  cried  the 
inspector,  and  struck  Stepan  with  his  fist  under 
the  jaw. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  137 

At  that  moment  Stepan  again  saw  the  murdered 
woman  before  him,  and  heard  her  voice;  he  did 
not  pay  attention,  therefore,  to  the  inspector's 
words. 

"  What?  "  he  asked,  coming  to  his  senses  when 
he  felt  the  blow  on  his  face. 

"Be  off!      Don't  pretend  you  don't  hear." 

The  inspector  expected  Stepan  to  be  violent,  to 
talk  to  the  other  prisoners,  to  make  attempts  to 
escape  from  prison.  But  nothing  of  the  kind  ever 
happened.  Whenever  the  guard  or  the  inspector 
himself  looked  into  his  cell  through  the  hole  in 
the  door,  they  saw  Stepan  sitting  on  a  bag  filled 
with  straw,  holding  his  head  with  his  hands  and 
whispering  to  himself.  On  being  brought  before 
the  examining  magistrate  charged  with  the  inquiry 
into  his  case,  he  did  not  behave  like  an  ordinary 
convict.  He  was  very  absent-minded,  hardly  list- 
ening to  the  questions;  but  when  he  heard  what 
was  asked,  he  answered  truthfully,  causing  the 
utmost  perplexity  to  the  magistrate,  who,  accus- 
tomed as  he  was  to  the  necessity  of  being  very 
clever  and  very  cunning  with  convicts,  felt  a 
strange  sensation  just  as  if  he  were  lifting  up  his 
foot  to  ascend  a  step  and  found  none.  Stepan 
told  him  the  story  of  all  his  murders;  and  did  it 
frowning,  with  a  set  look,  in  a  quiet,  businesslike 
voice,  trying  to  recollect  all  the  circumstances  of 


i38  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

his  crimes.  "  He  stepped  out  of  the  house,"  said 
Stepan,  telling  the  tale  of  his  first  murder,  "  and 
stood  barefooted  at  the  door;  I  hit  him,  and  he 
just  groaned;  I  went  to  his  wife,  .  .  ."  And 
so  on. 

One  day  the  magistrate,  visiting  the  prison  cells, 
asked  Stepan  whether  there  was  anything  he  had 
to  complain  of,  or  whether  he  had  any  wishes  that 
might  be  granted  him.  Stepan  said  he  had  no 
wishes  whatever,  and  had  nothing  to  complain  of 
the  way  he  was  treated  in  prison.  The  magis- 
trate, on  leaving  him,  took  a  few  steps  in  the  foul 
passage,  then  stopped  and  asked  the  governor  who 
had  accompanied  him  in  his  visit  how  this  pris- 
oner was  behaving. 

"  I  simply  wonder  at  him,"  said  th-i  governor, 
who  was  very  pleased  with  Stepan,  and  spoke 
kindly  of  him.  "  He  has  now  been  with  us  about 
two  months,  and  could  be  held  up  as  a  model  of 
good  behaviour.  But  I  am  afraid  he  is  plotting 
some  mischief.  He  is  a  daring  man,  and  excep- 
tionally strong." 

II 

DURING  the  first  month  in  prison  Stepan  suffered 
from  the  same  agonising  vision.  He  saw  the 
grey  wall  of  his  cell,  he  heard  the  sounds  of  the 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  139 

prison;  the  noise  of  the  cell  below  him,  where  a 
number  of  convicts  were  confined  together;  the 
striking  of  the  prison  clock;  the  steps  of  the  sentry 
in  the  passage;  but  at  the  same  time  he  saw  her 
with  that  kindly  face  which  conquered  his  heart 
the  very  first  time  he  met  her  in  the  street,  with 
that  thin,  strongly-marked  neck,  and  he  heard  her 
soft,  lisping,  pathetic  voice:  "To  destroy  some- 
body's soul  .  .  .  and,  worst  of  all,  your  own. 
How  can  you?  .  .  ." 
After  a  while  her  voice  would  die  away,  and 
then  black  faces  would  appear.  They  would  ap- 
pear whether  he  had  his  eyes  open  or  shut.  With 
his  closed  eyes  he  saw  them  more  distinctly.  When 
he  opened  his  eyes  they  vanished  for  a  moment, 
melting  away  into  the  walls  and  the  door;  but 
after  a  while  they  reappeared  and  surrounded  him 
from  three  sides,  grinning  at  him  and  saying  over 
and  over :  "  Make  an  end  !  Make  an  end  !  Hang 
yourself!  Set  yourself  on  fire!"  Stepan  shook 
all  over  when  he  heard  that,  and  tried  to  say  all 
the  prayers  he  knew:  "Our  Lady"  or  "Our 
Father."  At  first  this  seemed  to  help.  In  say- 
ing his  prayers  he  began  to  recollect  his  whole 
life;  his  father,  his  mother,  the  village,  the  dog 
"  Wolf,"  the  old  grandfather  lying  on  the  stove, 
the  bench  on  which  the  children  used  to  play;  then 
the  girls  in  the  village  with  their  songs,  his  horses 


Ho  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

and  how  they  had  been  stolen,  and  how  the  thief 
was  caught  and  how  he  killed  him  with  a  stone. 
He  recollected  also  the  first  prison  he  was  in  and 
his  leaving  it,  and  the  fat  innkeeper,  the  carter's 
wife  and  the  children.  Then  again  she  came  to 
his  mind  and  again  he  was  terrified.  Throwing 
his  prison  overcoat  off  his  shoulders,  he  jumped 
out  of  bed,  and,  like  a  wild  animal  in  a  cage,  be- 
gan pacing  up  and  down  his  tiny  cell,  hastily  turn- 
ing round  when  he  had  reached  the  damp  walls. 
Once  more  he  tried  to  pray,  but  it  was  of  no  use 
now. 

The  autumn  came  with  its  long  nights.  One 
evening  when  the  wind  whistled  and  howled  in  the 
pipes,  Stepan,  after  he  had  paced  up  and  down  his 
cell  for  a  long  time,  sat  down  on  his  bed.  He  felt 
he  could  not  struggle  any  more;  the  black  demons 
had  overpowered  him,  and  he  had  to  submit.  For 
some  time  he  had  been  looking  at  the  funnel  of  the 
oven.  If  he  could  fix  on  the  knob  of  its  lid  a  loop 
made  of  thin  shreds  of  narrow  linen  straps  it 
would  hold.  .  .  .  But  he  would  have  to  man- 
age it  very  cleverly.  He  set  to  work,  and  spent 
two  days  in  making  straps  out  of  the  linen  bag  on 
which  he  slept.  When  the  guard  came  into  the 
cell  he  covered  the  bed  with  his  overcoat.  He 
tied  the  straps  with  big  knots  and  made  them 
double,  in  order  that  they  might  be  strong  enough 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  141 

to  hold  his  weight.  During  these  preparations  he 
was  free  from  tormenting  visions.  When  the 
straps  were  ready  he  made  a  slip-knot  out  of  them, 
and  put  it  round  his  neck,  stood  up  in  his  bed,  and 
hanged  himself.  But  at  the  very  moment  that  his 
tongue  began  to  protrude  the  straps  got  loose,  and 
he  fell  down.  The  guard  rushed  in  at  the  noise. 
The  doctor  was  called  in,  Stepan  was  brought  to 
the  infirmary.  The  next  day  he  recovered,  and 
was  removed  from  the  infirmary,  no  more  to  soli- 
tary confinement,  but  to  share  the  common  cell 
with  other  prisoners. 

In  the  common  cell  he  lived  in  the  company  of 
twenty  men,  but  felt  as  if  he  were  quite  alone. 
He  did  not  notice  the  presence  of  the  rest;  did  not 
speak  to  anybody,  and  was  tormented  by  the  old 
agony.  He  felt  it  most  of  all  when  the  men  were 
sleeping  and  he  alone  could  not  get  one  moment 
of  sleep.  Continually  he  saw  her  before  his  eyes, 
heard  her  voice,  and  then  again  the  black  devils 
with  their  horrible  eyes  came  and  tortured  him  in 
the  usual  way. 

He  again  tried  to  say  his  prayers,  but,  just  as 
before,  it  did  not  help  him.  One  day  when,  after 
his  prayers,  she  was  again  before  his  eyes,  he  be- 
gan to  implore  her  dear  soul  to  forgive  him  his  sin, 
and  release  him.  Towards  morning,  when  he  fell 
down  quite  exhausted  on  his  crushed  linen  bag,  he 


i42  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

fell  asleep  at  once,  and  in  his  dream  she  came  to 
him  with  her  thin,  wrinkled,  and  severed  neck. 
"  Will  you  forgive  me?"  he  asked.  She  looked 
at  him  with  her  mild  eyes  and  did  not  answer. 
"  Will  you  forgive  me?  "  And  so  he  asked  her 
three  times.  But  she  did  not  say  a  word,  and  he 
awoke.  From  that  time  onwards  he  suffered  less, 
and  seemed  to  come  to  his  senses,  looked  around 
him,  and  began  for  the  first  time  to  talk  to  the 
other  men  in  the  cell. 


Ill 

Stepan's  cell  was  shared  among  others  by  the 
former  yard-porter,  Vassily,  who  had  been  sen- 
tenced to  deportation  for  robbery,  and  by  Chouev, 
sentenced  also  to  deportation.  Vassily  sang  songs 
the  whole  day  long  with  his  fine  voice,  or  told  his 
adventures  to  the  other  men  in  the  cell.  Chouev 
was  working  at  something  all  day,  mending  his 
clothes,  or  reading  the  Gospel  and  the  Psalter. 

Stepan  asked  him  why  he  was  put  into  prison, 
and  Chouev  answered  that  he  was  being  perse- 
cuted because  of  his  true  Christian  faith  by  the 
priests,  who  were  all  of  them  hypocrites  and  hated 
those  who  followed  the  law  of  Christ.  Stepan 
asked  what  that  true  law  was,  and  Chouev  made 
clear  to  him  that  the  true  law  consists  in  not  wor- 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  143 

shipping  gods  made  with  hands,  but  worshipping 
the  spirit  and  the  truth.  He  told  him  how  he  had 
learnt  the  truth  from  the  lame  tailor  at  the  time 
when  they  were  dividing  the  land. 

"  And  what  will  become  of  those  who  have 
done  evil?"  asked  Stepan. 

"  The  Scriptures  give  an  answer  to  that,"  said 
Chouev,  and  read  aloud  to  him  Matthew  xxv. 
3i:— 

"  When  the  Son  of  Man  shall  come  in  His 
glory,  and  all  the  holy  angels  with  Him,  then  shall 
He  sit  upon  the  throne  of  His  glory:  and  before 
Him  shall  be  gathered  all  nations:  and  He  shall 
separate  them  one  from  another,  as  a  shepherd 
divideth  His  sheep  from  the  goats:  and  He  shall 
set  the  sheep  on  His  right  hand,  but  the  goats  on 
the  left.  Then  shall  the  King  say  unto  them  on 
His  right  hand,  Come,  ye  blessed  of  My  Father, 
inherit  the  kingdom  prepared  for  you  from  the 
foundation  of  the  world:  for  I  was  an  hungred, 
and  ye  gave  Me  meat :  I  was  thirsty,  and  ye  gave 
Me  drink:  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  Me  in: 
naked,  and  ye  clothed  Me:  I  was  sick,  and  ye 
visited  Me:  I  was  in  prison,  and  ye  came  unto  Me. 
Then  shall  the  righteous  answer  Him,  saying, 
Lord,  when  saw  we  Thee  an  hungred,  and  fed 
Thee?  or  thirsty,  and  gave  Thee  drink?     When 


i44  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

saw  we  Thee  a  stranger,  and  took  Thee  in?  or 
naked,  and  clothed  Thee?  Or  when  saw  we  Thee 
sick,  or  in  prison,  and  came  unto  Thee?  And  the 
King  shall  answer  and  say  unto  them,  Verily  I  say 
unto  you,  inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of 
the  least  of  these  My  brethren,  ye  have  done  it 
unto  Me.  Then  shall  He  say  also  unto  them  on 
the  left  hand,  Depart  from  Me,  ye  cursed,  into 
everlasting  tire,  prepared  for  the  devil  and  his  an- 
gels: for  I  was  an  hungred,  and  ye  gave  Me  no 
meat:  I  was  thirsty,  and  ye  gave  Me  no  drink:  I 
was  a  stranger  and  ye  took  Me  not  in:  naked,  and 
ye  clothed  Me  not;  sick,  and  in  prison,  and  ye 
visited  Me  not.  Then  shall  they  also  answer 
Him,  saying,  Lord,  when  saw  we  Thee  an  hun- 
gred, or  athirst,  or  a  stranger,  or  naked,  or  sick, 
or  in  prison,  and  did  not  minister  unto  Thee? 
Then  shall  He  answer  them,  saying,  Verily  I  say 
unto  you,  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  not  to  one  of  the 
least  of  these,  ye  did  it  not  to  Me.  And  these 
shall  go  away  into  everlasting  punishment:  but  the 
righteous  into  life  eternal." 

Vassily,  who  was  sitting  on  the  floor  at  Chouev's 
side,  and  was  listening  to  his  reading  the  Gospel, 
nodded  his  handsome  head  in  approval.  "  True," 
he  said  in  a  resolute  tone.  "  Go,  you  cursed  vil- 
lains, into  everlasting  punishment,  since  you  did 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  145 

not  give  food  to  the  hungry,  but  swallowed  it  all 
yourself.  Serves  them  right!  I  have  read  the 
holy  Nikodim's  writings,"  he  added,  showing  off 
his  erudition. 

"And  will  they  never  be  pardoned?"  asked 
Stepan,  who  had  listened  silently,  with  his  hairy 
head  bent  low  down. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  and  be  silent,"  said  Chouev 
to  Vassily,  who  went  on  talking  about  the  rich 
who  had  not  given  meat  to  the  stranger,  nor  vis- 
ited him  in  the  prison. 

"  Wait,  I  say !  "  said  Chouev,  again  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  the  Gospel.  Having  found 
what  he  was  looking  for,  Chouev  smoothed  the 
page  with  his  large  and  strong  hand,  which  had 
become  exceedingly  white  in  prison  : 

"  And  there  were  also  two  other  malefactors, 
led  with  Him  "  —  it  means  with  Christ  —  "  to  be 
put  to  death.  And  when  they  were  come  to  the 
place,  which  is  called  Calvary,  there  they  crucified 
Him,  and  the  malefactors,  one  on  the  right  hand, 
and  the  other  on  the  left.  Then  said  Jesus,  — 
'  Father,  forgive  them ;  for  they  know  not  what 
they  do.'  And  the  people  stood  beholding.  And 
the  rulers  also  with  them  derided  Him,  saying,  — 
4  He  saved  others;  let  Him  save  Himself  if  He 
be  Christ,  the  chosen  of  God.'     And  the  soldiers 


1 46  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

also  mocked  Him,  coming  to  Him,  and  offering 
Him  vinegar,  and  saying,  '  If  Thou  be  the  King  of 
the  Jews  save  Thyself.'  And  a  superscription 
also  was  written  over  Him  in  letters  of  Greek, 
and  Latin,  and  Hebrew,  '  This  is  the  King  of  the 
Jews.'  And  one  of  the  malefactors  which  were 
hanged  railed  on  Him,  saying,  '  If  thou  be  Christ, 
save  Thyself  and  us.'  But  the  other  answering 
rebuked  Him,  saying,  '  Dost  not  thou  fear  God, 
seeing  thou  art  in  the  same  condemnation?  And 
we  indeed  justly,  for  we  receive  the  due  reward  of 
our  deeds:  but  this  man  hath  done  nothing  amiss.' 
And  he  said  unto  Jesus,  '  Lord,  remember  me 
when  Thou  comest  into  Thy  kingdom.'  And  Je- 
sus said  unto  him,  '  Verily  I  say  unto  thee,  to-day 
shalt  thou  be  with  Me  in  paradise.'  " 

Stepan  did  not  say  anything,  and  was  sitting 
in  thought,  as  if  he  were  listening. 

Now  he  knew  what  the  true  faith  was.  Those 
only  will  be  saved  who  have  given  food  and  drink 
to  the  poor  and  visited  the  prisoners;  those  who 
have  not  done  it,  go  to  hell.  And  yet  the  male- 
factor had  repented  on  the  cross,  and  went  never- 
theless to  paradise.  This  did  not  strike  him  as 
being  inconsistent.  Quite  the  contrary.  The  one 
confirmed  the  other:  the  fact  that  the  merciful 
will  go  to  Heaven,  and  the  unmerciful  to  hell, 
meant  that  everybody  ought  to  be  merciful,  and 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  147 

the  malefactor  having  been  forgiven  by  Christ 
meant  that  Christ  was  merciful.  This  was  all 
new  to  Stepan,  and  he  wondered  why  it  had  been 
hidden  from  him  so  long. 

From  that  day  onward  he  spent  all  his  free  time 
with  Chouev,  asking  him  questions  and  listening 
to  him.  He  saw  but  a  single  truth  at  the  bottom 
of  the  teaching  of  Christ  as  revealed  to  him  by 
Chouev:  that  all  men  are  brethren,  and  that  they 
ought  to  love  and  pity  one  another  in  order  that 
all  might  be  happy.  And  when  he  listened  to 
Chouev,  everything  that  was  consistent  with  this 
fundamental  truth  came  to  him  like  a  thing  he 
had  known  before  and  only  forgotten  since,  while 
whatever  he  heard  that  seemed  to  contradict  it, 
he  would  take  no  notice  of,  as  he  thought  that  he 
simply  had  not  understood  the  real  meaning. 
And  from  that  time  Stepan  was  a  different 
man. 


IV 

Stepan  had  been  very  submissive  and  meek  ever 
since  he  came  to  the  prison,  but  now  he  made  the 
prison  authorities  and  all  his  fellow-prisoners 
wonder  at  the  change  in  him.  Without  being  or- 
dered, and  out  of  his  proper  turn  he  would  do  all 
the  very  hardest  work  in  prison,  and  the  dirtiest 
too.      But  in  spite  of  his  humility,  the  other  pris- 


i48  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

oners  stood  in  awe  of  him,  and  were  afraid  of  him, 
as  they  knew  he  was  a  resolute  man,  possessed  of 
great  physical  strength.  Their  respect  for  him 
increased  after  the  incident  of  the  two  tramps 
who  fell  upon  him;  he  wrenched  himself  loose 
from  them  and  broke  the  arm  of  one  of  them  in 
the  fight.  These  tramps  had  gambled  with  a 
young  prisoner  of  some  means  and  deprived  him 
of  all  his  money.  Stepan  took  his  part,  and  de- 
prived the  tramps  of  their  winnings.  The  tramps 
poured  their  abuse  on  him;  but  when  they  attacked 
him,  he  got  the  better  of  them.  When  the  Gov- 
ernor asked  how  the  fight  had  come  about,  the 
tramps  declared  that  it  was  Stepan  who  had  begun 
it.  Stepan  did  not  try  to  exculpate  himself,  and 
bore  patiently  his  sentence  which  was  three  days 
in  the  punishment-cell,  and  after  that  solitary  con- 
finement. 

In  his  solitary  cell  he  suffered  because  he  could 
no  longer  listen  to  Chouev  and  his  Gospel.  He 
was  also  afraid  that  the  former  visions  of  her  and 
of  the  black  devils  would  reappear  to'  torment 
him.  But  the  visions  were  gone  for  good.  His 
soul  was  full  of  new  and  happy  ideas.  He  felt 
glad  to  be  alone  if  only  he  could  read,  and  if  he 
had  the  Gospel.  He  knew  that  he  might  have 
got  hold  of  the  Gospel,  but  he  could  not  read. 

He  had  started  to  learn  the   alphabet  in  his 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  149 

boyhood,  but  could  not  grasp  the  joining  of  the 
syllables,  and  remained  illiterate.  He  made  up 
his  mind  to  start  reading  anew,  and  asked  the 
guard  to  bring  him  the  Gospels.  They  were 
brought  to  him,  and  he  sat  down  to  work.  He 
contrived  to  recollect  the  letters,  but  could  not  join 
them  into  syllables.  He  tried  as  hard  as  he  could 
to  understand  how  the  letters  ought  to  be  put  to- 
gether to  form  words,  but  with  no  result  whatever. 
He  lost  his  sleep,  had  no  desire  to  eat,  and  a  deep 
sadness  came  over  him,  which  he  was  unable  to 
shake  off. 

"Well,  have  you  not  yet  mastered  it?"  asked 
the  guard  one  day. 

"  No." 

"  Do  you  know  '  Our  Father  '  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Since  you  do,  read  it  in  the  Gospels.  Here 
it  is,"  said  the  guard,  showing  him  the  prayer  in 
the  Gospels.  Stepan  began  to  read  it,  comparing 
the  letters  he  knew  with  the  familiar  sounds. 

And  all  of  a  sudden  the  mystery  of  the  sylla- 
bles was  revealed  to  him,  and  he  began  to  read. 
This  was  a  great  joy.  From  that  moment  he 
could  read,  and  the  meaning  of  the  words,  spelt 
out  with  such  great  pains,  became  more  significant. 

Stepan  did  not  mind  any  more  being  alone. 
He  was  so  full  of  his  work  that  he  did  not  feel 


1 5o  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

glad  when  he  was  transferred  back  to  the  common 
cell,  his  private  cell  being  needed  for  a  political 
prisoner  who  had  been  just  sent  to  prison. 


In  the  meantime  Mahin,  the  schoolboy  who  had 
taught  his  friend  Smokovnikov  to  forge  the  cou- 
pon, had  finished  his  career  at  school  and  then  at 
the  university,  where  he  had  studied  law.  He 
had  the  advantage  of  being  liked  by  women,  and 
as  he  had  won  favour  with  a  vice-minister's  former 
mistress,  he  was  appointed  when  still  young  as 
examining  magistrate.  He  was  dishonest,  had 
debts,  had  gambled,  and  had  seduced  many 
women;  but  he  was  clever,  sagacious,  and  a  good 
magistrate.  He  was  appointed  to  the  court  of 
the  district  where  Stepan  Pelageushkine  had  been 
tried.  When  Stepan  was  brought  to  him  the  first 
time  to  give  evidence,  his  sincere  and  quiet  answers 
puzzled  the  magistrate.  He  somehow  uncon- 
sciously felt  that  this  man,  brought  to  him  in  fet- 
ters and  with  a  shorn  head,  guarded  by  two 
soldiers  who  were  waiting  to  take  him  back  to 
prison,  had  a  free  soul  and  was  immeasurably  su- 
perior to  himself.  He  was  in  consequence  some- 
what troubled,  and  had  to  summon  up  all  his 
courage  in  order  to  go  on  with  the  inquiry  and' 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  151 

not  blunder  in  his  questions.  He  was  amazed 
that  Stepan  should  narrate  the  story  of  his  crimes 
as  if  they  had  been  things  of  long  ago,  and  com- 
mitted not  by  him  but  by  some  different  man. 

"  Had  you  no  pity  for  them?  "  asked  Mahin. 

"  No.     I  did  not  know  then." 

"  Well,  and  now?  " 

Stepan  smiled  with  a  sad  smile.  "  Now,"  he 
said,  "  I  would  not  do  it  even  if  I  were  to  be 
burned  alive." 

"  But  why?  " 

"  Because  I  have  come  to  know  that  all  men 
are  brethren." 

"  What  about  me?     Am  I  your  brother  also?  " 

"  Of  course  you  are." 

"  And  how  is  it  that  I,  your  brother,  am  send- 
ing you  to  hard  labour?  " 

"  It  is  because  you  don't  know." 

"  What  do  I  not  know?  " 

"  Since  you  judge,  it  means  obviously  that  you 
don't  know." 

"Goon.     .     .     .     What  next?" 


VI 

Now  it  was  not  Chouev,  but  Stepan  who  used  to 
read  the  gospel  in  the  common  cell.  Some  of  the 
prisoners  were  singing  coarse  songs,  while  others 


152  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

listened  to  Stepan  reading  the  gospel  and  talking 
about  what  he  had  read.  The  most  attentive 
among  those  who  listened  were  two  of  the  pris- 
oners, Vassily,  and  a  convict  called  Mahorkin,  a 
murderer  who  had  become  a  hangman.  Twice 
during  his  stay  in  this  prison  he  was  called  upon 
to  do  duty  as  hangman,  and  both  times  in  far- 
away places  where  nobody  could  be  found  to  ex- 
ecute the  sentences. 

Two  of  the  peasants  who  had  killed  Peter 
Nikolaevich  Sventizky,  had  been  sentenced  to 
the  gallows,  and  Mahorkin  was  ordered  to  go  to 
Pensa  to  hang  them.  On  all  previous  occasions 
he  used  to  write  a  petition  to  the  governor  of  the 
province  —  he  knew  well  how  to  read  and  to  write 
—  stating  that  he  had  been  ordered  to  fulfil  his 
duty,  and  asking  for  money  for  his  expenses.  But 
now,  to  the  greatest  astonishment  of  the  prison 
authorities,  he  said  he  did  not  intend  to  go,  and 
added  that  he  would  not  be  a  hangman  any  more. 

"And  what  about  being  flogged?"  cried  the 
governor  of  the  prison. 

"  I  will  have  to  bear  it,  as  the  law  commands 
us  not  to  kill." 

"  Did  you  get  that  from  Pelageushkine?  A 
nice  sort  of  a  prison  prophet!  You  just  wait  and 
see  what  this  will  cost  you !  " 

When  Mahin  was  told  of  that  incident,  he  was 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  153 

greatly  impressed  by  the  fact  of  Stepan's  influence 
on  the  hangman,  who  refused  to  do  his  duty,  run- 
ning the  risk  of  being  hanged  himself  for  insub- 
ordination. 

VII 

At  an  evening  party  at  the  Eropkins,  Mahin,  who 
was  paying  attentions  to  the  two  young  daughters 
of  the  house  —  they  were  rich  matches,  both  of 
them  —  having  earned  great  applause  for  his  fine 
singing  and  playing  the  piano,  began  telling  the 
company  about  the  strange  convict  who  had  con- 
verted the  hangman.  Mahin  told  his  story  very 
accurately,  as  he  had  a  very  good  memory,  which 
was  all  the  more  retentive  because  of  his  total  in- 
difference to  those  with  whom  he  had  to  deal. 
He  never  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  other  peo- 
ple's feelings,  and  was  therefore  better  able  to 
keep  all  they  did  or  said  in  his  memory.  He  got 
interested  in  Stepan  Pelageushkine,  and,  although 
he  did  not  thoroughly  understand  him,  yet  asked 
himself  involuntarily  what  was  the  matter  with 
the  man?  He  could  not  find  an  answer,  but  feel- 
ing that  there  was  certainly  something  remarkable 
going  on  in  Stepan's  soul,  he  told  the  company  at 
the  Eropkins  all  about  Stepan's  conversion  of  the 
hangman,  and  also  about  his  strange  behaviour 
in  prison,  his  reading  the  Gospels  and  his  great 


154  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

influence  on  the  rest  of  the  prisoners.  All  this 
made  a  special  impression  on  the  younger  daugh- 
ter of  the  family,  Lisa,  a  girl  of  eighteen,  who 
was  just  recovering  from  the  artificial  life  she  had 
been  living  in  a  boarding-school;  she  felt  as  if 
she  had  emerged  out  of  water,  and  was  taking  in 
the  fresh  air  of  true  life  with  ecstasy.  She  asked 
Mahin  to  tell  her  more  about  the  man  Pelageush- 
kine,  and  to  explain  to  her  how  such  a  great  change 
had  come  over  him.  Mahin  told  her  what  he 
knew  from  the  police  official  about  Stepan's  last 
murder,  and  also  what  he  had  heard  from  Pela- 
geushkine  himself  —  how  he  had  been  conquered 
by  the  humility,  mildness,  and  fearlessness  of  a 
kind  woman,  who  had  been  his  last  victim,  and 
how  his  eyes  had  been  opened,  while  the  reading 
of  the  Gospels  had  completed  the  change  in  him. 
Lisa  Eropkin  was  not  able  to  sleep  that  night. 
For  a  couple  of  months  a  struggle  had  gone  on  in 
her  heart  between  society  life,  into  which  her  sis- 
ter was  dragging  her,  and  her  infatuation  for 
Mahin,  combined  with  a  desire  to  reform  him. 
This  second  desire  now  became  the  stronger. 
She  had  already  heard  about  poor  Maria  Seme- 
novna.  But,  after  that  kind  woman  had  been 
murdered  in  such  a  ghastly  way,  and  after  Mahin, 
who  learnt  it  from  Stepan,  had  communicated  to 
her  all  the  facts  concerning  Maria  Semenovna's 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  155 

life,  Lisa  herself  passionately  desired  to  become 
like  her.  She  was  a  rich  girl,  and  was  afraid 
that  Mahin  had  been  courting  her  because  of  her 
money.  So  she  resolved  to  give  all  she  possessed 
to  the  poor,  and  told  Mahin  about  it. 

Mahin  was  very  glad  to  prove  his  disinterest- 
edness, and  told  Lisa  that  he  loved  her  and  not 
her  money.  Such  proof  of  his  innate  nobility 
made  him  admire  himself  greatly.  Mahin 
helped  Lisa  to  carry  out  her  decision.  And  the 
more  he  did  so,  the  more  he  came  to  realise  the 
new  world  of  Lisa's  spiritual  ambitions,  quite  un- 
known to  him  heretofore. 

VIII 

All  were  silent  in  the  common  cell.  Stepan  was 
lying  in  his  bed,  but  was  not  yet  asleep.  Vassily 
approached  him,  and,  pulling  him  by  his  leg, 
asked  him  in  a  whisper  to  get  up  and  to  come  to 
him.  Stepan  stepped  out  of  his  bed,  and  came 
up  to  Vassily. 

"  Do  me  a  kindness,  brother,"  said  Vassily. 
"Help  me!" 

"In  what?" 

"  I  am  going  to  fly  from  the  prison." 

Vassily  told  Stepan  that  he  had  everything  ready 
for  his  flight. 


156  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"To-morrow  I  shall  stir  them  up — "  He 
pointed  to  the  prisoners  asleep  in  their  beds. 
"  They  will  give  me  away,  and  I  shall  be  trans- 
ferred to  the  cell  in  the  upper  floor.  I  know  my 
way  from  there.  What  I  want  you  for  is  to  un- 
screw the  prop  in  the  door  of  the  mortuary." 

"  I  can  do  that.      But  where  will  you  go?" 

"  I  don't  care  where.  Are  not  there  plenty  of 
wicked  people  in  every  place?" 

"  Quite  so,  brother.  But  it  is  not  our  business 
to  judge  them." 

"  I  am  not  a  murderer,  to  be  sure.  I  have  not 
destroyed  a  living  soul  in  my  life.  As  for  steal- 
ing, I  don't  see  any  harm  in  that.  As  if  they  have 
not  robbed  us!  " 

"  Let  them  answer  for  it  themselves,  if  they 
do." 

"Bother  them  all!  Suppose  I  rob  a  church, 
who  will  be  hurt?  This  time  I  will  take  care 
not  to  break  into  a  small  shop,  but  will  get 
hold  of  a  lot  of  money,  and  then  I  will  help  people 
with  it.      I  will  give  it  to  all  good  people." 

One  of  the  prisoners  rose  in  his  bed  and  lis- 
tened. Stepan  and  Vassily  broke  off  their  con- 
versation. The  next  day  Vassily  carried  out  his 
idea.  He  began  complaining  of  the  bread  in 
prison,  saying  it  was  moist,  and  induced  the  pris- 
oners to  call  the  governor  and  to  tell  him  of  their 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  157 

discontent.  The  governor  came,  abused  them  all, 
and  when  he  heard  it  was  Vassily  who  had  stirred 
up  the  men,  he  ordered  him  to  be  transferred 
into  solitary  confinement  in  the  cell  on  the  upper 
floor.     This  was  all  Vassily  wanted. 


IX 

Vassily  knew  well  that  cell  on  the  upper  floor. 
He  knew  its  floor,  and  began  at  once  to  take  out 
bits  of  it.  When  he  had  managed  to  get  under 
the  floor  he  took  out  pieces  of  the  ceiling  beneath, 
and  jumped  down  into  the  mortuary  a  floor  below. 
Thatjday  only  one  corpse  was  lying  on  the  table. 
There  in  the  corner  of  the  room  were  stored  bags 
to  make  hay  mattresses  for  the  prisoners.  Vas- 
sily knew  about  the  bags,  and  that  was  why  the 
mortuary  served  his  purposes.  The  prop  in  the 
door  had  been  unscrewed  and  put  in  again.  He 
took  it  out,  opened  the  door,  and  went  out  into 
the  passage  to  the  lavatory  which  was  being  built. 
In  the  lavatory  was  a  large  hole  connecting  the 
third  floor  with  the  basement  floor.  After  hav- 
ing found  the  door  of  the  lavatory  he  went  back 
to  the  mortuary,  stripped  the  sheet  off  the  dead 
body  which  was  as  cold  as  ice  (in  taking  off  the 
sheet  Vassily  touched  his  hand),  took  the  bags, 
tied  them  together  to  make  a  rope,  and  carried 


158  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

the  rope  to  the  lavatory.  Then  he  attached  it 
to  the  cross-heam,  and  climbed  down  along  it. 
The  rope  did  not  reach  the  ground,  but  he  did 
not  know  how  much  was  wanting.  Anyhow,  he 
had  to  take  the  risk.  He  remained  hanging  in 
the  air,  and  then  jumped  down.  His  legs  were 
badly  hurt,  but  he  could  still  walk  on.  The 
basement  had  two  windows;  he  could  have  climbed 
out  of  one  of  them  but  for  the  grating  protecting 
them.  He  had  to  break  the  grating,  but  there 
was  no  tool  to  do  it  with.  Vassily  began  to  look 
around  him,  and  chanced  on  a  piece  of  plank  with 
a  sharp  edge;  armed  with  that  weapon  he  tried 
to  loosen  the  bricks  which  held  the  grating.  He 
worked  a  long  time  at  that  task.  The  cock 
crowed  for  the  second  time,  but  the  grating  still 
held.  At  last  he  had  loosened  one  side;  and  then 
he  pushed  the  plank  under  the  loosened  end  and 
pressed  with  all  his  force.  The  grating  gave  way 
completely,  but  at  that  moment  one  of  the  bricks 
fell  down  heavily.  The  noise  could  have  been 
heard  by  the  sentry.  Vassily  stood  motionless. 
But  silence  reigned.  He  climbed  out  of  the  win- 
dow. His  way  of  escape  was  to  climb  the  wall. 
An  outhouse  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  courtyard. 
He  had  to  reach  its  roof,  and  pass  thence  to  the 
top  of  the  wall.  But  he  would  not  be  able  to 
reach  the  roof  without  the  help  of  the  plank;  so 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  159 

he  had  to  go  back  through  the  basement  window 
to  fetch  it.  A  moment  later  he  came  out  of  the 
window  with  the  plank  in  his  hands;  he  stood  still 
for  a  while  listening  to  the  steps  of  the  sentry. 
His  expectations  were  justified.  The  sentry  was 
walking  up  and  down  on  the  other  side  of  the 
courtyard.  Vassily  came  up  to  the  outhouse, 
leaned  the  plank  against  it,  and  began  climbing. 
The  plank  slipped  and  fell  on  the  ground.  Vas- 
sily had  his  stockings  on ;  he  took  them  off  so  that 
he  could  cling  with  his  bare  feet  in  coming  down. 
Then  he  leaned  the  plank  again  against  the  house, 
and  seized  the  water-pipe  with  his  hands.  If  only 
this  time  the  plank  would  hold !  A  quick  move- 
ment up  the  water-pipe,  and  his  knee  rested  on 
the  roof.  The  sentry  was  approaching.  Vassily 
lay  motionless.  The  sentry  did  not  notice  him, 
and  passed  on.  Vassily  leaped  to  his  feet;  the 
iron  roof  cracked  under  him.  Another  step  or 
two,  and  he  would  reach  the  wall.  He  could 
touch  it  with  his  hand  now.  He  leaned  forward 
with  one  hand,  then  with  the  other,  stretched  out 
his  body  as  far  as  he  could,  and  found  himself 
on  the  wall.  Only,  not  to  break  his  legs  in  jump- 
ing down,  Vassily  turned  round,  remained  hang- 
ing in  the  air  by  his  hands,  stretched  himself  out, 
loosened  the  grip  of  one  hand,  then  the  other. 
"Help    me,    God!"     He    was    on    the    ground. 


i6o  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

And  the  ground  was  soft.  His  legs  were  not 
hurt,  and  he  ran  at  the  top  of  his  speed.  In  a 
suburb,  Malania  opened  her  door,  and  he  crept 
under  her  warm  coverlet,  made  of  small  pieces 
of  different  colours  stitched  together. 


X 

The  wife  of  Peter  Nikolaevich  Sventizky,  a  tall 
and  handsome  woman,  as  quiet  and  sleek  as  a 
well-fed  heifer,  had  seen  from  her  window  how 
her  husband  had  been  murdered  and  dragged  away 
into  the  fields.  The  horror  of  such  a  sight  to 
Natalia  Ivanovna  was  so  intense  —  how  could  it 
be  otherwise?  —  that  all  her  other  feelings  van- 
ished. No  sooner  had  the  crowd  disappeared 
from  view  behind  the  garden  fence,  and  the  voices 
had  become  still;  no  sooner  had  the  bare-footed 
Malania,  their  servant,  run  in  with  her  eyes  start- 
ing out  of  her  head,  calling  out  in  a  voice  more 
suited  to  the  proclamation  of  glad  tidings  the 
news  that  Peter  Nikolaevich  had  been  murdered 
and  thrown  into  the  ravine,  than  Natalia  Ivan- 
ovna felt  that  behind  her  first  sensation  of  horror, 
there  was  another  sensation;  a  feeling  of  joy  at 
her  deliverance  from  the  tyrant,  who  through  all 
the  nineteen  years  of  their  married  life  had  made 
her    work    without    a    moment's    rest.     Her    joy 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  161 

made  her  aghast;  she  did  not  confess  it  to  herself, 
but  hid  it  the  more  from  those  around.  When 
his  mutilated,  yellow  and  hairy  body  was  being 
washed  and  put  into  the  coffin,  she  cried  with  hor- 
ror, and  wept  and  sobbed.  When  the  coroner  — 
a  special  coroner  for  serious  cases  —  came  and 
was  taking  her  evidence,  she  noticed  in  the  room, 
where  the  inquest  was  taking  place,  two  peasants 
in  irons,  who  had  been  charged  as  the  principal 
culprits.  One  of  them  was  an  old  man  with  a 
curly  white  beard,  and  a  calm  and  severe  coun- 
tenance. The  other  was  rather  young,  of  a  gipsy 
type,  with  bright  eyes  and  curly  dishevelled  hair. 
She  declared  that  they  were  the  two  men  who  had 
first  seized  hold  of  Peter  Nikolaevich's  hands. 
In  spite  of  the  gipsy-like  peasant  looking  at  her 
with  his  eyes  glistening  from  under  his  moving 
eyebrows,  and  saying  reproachfully:  "A  great 
sin,  lady,  it  is.  Remember  your  death  hour!" 
—  in  spite  of  that,  she  did  not  feel  at  all  sorry  for 
them.  On  the  contrary,  she  began  to  hate  them 
during  the  inquest,  and  wished  desperately  to 
take  revenge  on  her  husband's  murderers. 

A  month  later,  after  the  case,  which  was  com- 
mitted for  trial  by  court-martial,  had  ended  in 
eight  men  being  sentenced  to  hard  labour,  and  in 
two  —  the  old  man  with  the  white  beard,  and  the 
gipsy  boy,   as  she  called  the  other  —  being  con- 


162  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

demned  to  be  hanged,  Natalia  felt  vaguely  uneasy. 
But  unpleasant  doubts  soon  pass  away  under  the 
solemnity  of  a  trial.  Since  such  high  authorities 
considered  that  this  was  the  right  thing  to  do,  it 
must  be  right. 

The  execution  was  to  take  place  in  the  village 
itself.  One  Sunday  Malania  came  home  from 
church  in  her  new  dress  and  her  new  boots,  and 
announced  to  her  mistress  that  the  gallows  were 
being  erected,  and  that  the  hangman  was  expected 
from  Moscow  on  Wednesday.  She  also  an- 
nounced that  the  families  of  the  convicts  were 
raging,  and  that  their  cries  could  be  heard  all  over 
the  village. 

Natalia  Ivanovna  did  not  go  out  of  her  house; 
she  did  not  wish  to  see  the  gallows  and  the  people 
in  the  village;  she  only  wanted  what  had  to  hap- 
pen to  be  over  quickly.  She  only  considered  her 
own  feelings,  and  did  not  care  for  the  convicts 
and  their  families. 

On  Tuesday  the  village  constable  called  on 
Natalia  Ivanovna.  He  was  a  friend,  and  she  of- 
fered him  vodka  and  preserved  mushrooms  of  her 
own  making.  The  constable,  after  eating  a  little, 
told  her  that  the  execution  was  not  to  take  place 
the  next  day. 

"Why?" 

"  A  very  strange  thing  has  happened.     There 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  163 

is  no  hangman  to  be  found.  They  had  one  in 
Moscow,  my  son  told  me,  but  he  has  been  reading 
the  Gospels  a  good  deal  and  says:  'I  will  not 
commit  a  murder.'  He  had  himself  been  sen- 
tenced to  hard  labour  for  having  committed  a  mur- 
der, and  now  he  objects  to  hang  when  the  law  or- 
ders him.  He  was  threatened  with  flogging. 
1  You  may  flog  me,'  he  said,  '  but  I  won't  do  it.'  " 

Natalia  Ivanovna  grew  red  and  hot  at  the 
thought  which  suddenly  came  into  her  head. 

"  Could  not  the  death  sentence  be  commuted 
now?" 

"How  so,  since  the  judges  have  passed  it? 
The  Czar  alone  has  the  right  of  amnesty." 

"  But  how  would  he  know?  " 

"  They  have  the  right  of  appealing  to  him." 

"  But  it  is  on  my  account  they  are  to  die,"  said 
that  stupid  woman,  Natalia  Ivanovna.  "  And  I 
forgive  them." 

The  constable  laughed.  "  Well  —  send  a  pe- 
tition to  the  Czar." 

"May  I  do  it?" 

"  Of  course  you  may." 

"  But  is  it  not  too  late?  " 

"  Send  it  by  telegram." 

"To  the  Czar  himself?" 

"  To  the  Czar,  if  you  like." 

The  story  of  the  hangman  having  refused  to 


1 64  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

do  his  duty,  and  preferring  to  take  the  flogging 
instead,  suddenly  changed  the  soul  of  Natalia 
Ivanovna.  The  pity  and  the  horror  she  felt  the 
moment  she  heard  that  the  peasants  were  sen- 
tenced to  death,  could  not  be  stifled  now,  but 
filled  her  whole  soul. 

"  Filip  Vassilievich,  my  friend.  Write  that  tel- 
egram for  me.  I  want  to  appeal  to  the  Czar  to 
pardon  them." 

The  constable  shook  his  head.  "  I  wonder 
whether  that  would  not  involve  us  in  trouble?" 

"  I  do  it  upon  my  own  responsibility.  I  will 
not  mention  your  name." 

"  Is  not  she  a  kind  woman,"  thought  the  con- 
stable. "  Very  kind-hearted,  to  be  sure.  If  my 
wife  had  such  a  heart,  our  life  would  be  a  para- 
dise, instead  of  what  it  is  now."  And  he  wrote 
the  telegram,  — 

"  To  his  Imperial  Majesty,  the  Emperor. 
"  Your  Majesty's  loyal  subject,  the  widow  of  Pe- 
ter Nikolaevich  Sventizky,  murdered  by  the  peas- 
ants, throws  herself  at  the  sacred  feet  (this 
sentence,  when  he  wrote  it  down,  pleased  the  con- 
stable himself  most  of  all)  of  your  Imperial 
Majesty,  and  implores  you  to  grant  an  amnesty 
to  the  peasants  so  and  so,  from  such  a  province, 
district,  and  village,  who  have  been  sentenced  to 
death." 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  165 

The  telegram  was  sent  by  the  constable  him- 
self, and  Natalia  Ivanovna  felt  relieved  and 
happy.  She  had  a  feeling  that  since  she,  the 
widow  of  the  murdered  man,  had  forgiven  the 
murderers,  and  was  applying  for  an  amnesty,  the 
Czar  could  not  possibly  refuse  it. 


XI 

Lisa  Eropkin  lived  in  a  state  of  continual  ex- 
citement. The  longer  she  lived  a  true  Christian 
life  as  it  had  been  revealed  to  her,  the  more  con- 
vinced she  became  that  it  was  the  right  way,  and 
her  heart  was  full  of  joy. 

She  had  two  immediate  aims  before  her.  The 
one  was  to  convert  Mahin;  or,  as  she  put  it  to 
herself,  to  arouse  his  true  nature,  which  was  good 
and  kind.  She  loved  him,  and  the  light  of  her 
love  revealed  the  divine  element  in  his  soul  which 
is  at  the  bottom  of  all  souls.  But,  further,  she 
saw  in  him  an  exceptionally  kind  and  tender 
heart,  as  well  as  a  noble  mind.  Her  other  aim 
was  to  abandon  her  riches.  She  had  first  thought 
of  giving  away  what  she  possessed  in  order  to 
test  Mahin;  but  afterwards  she  wanted  to  do  so 
for  her  own  sake,  for  the  sake  of  her  own  soul. 
She  began  by  simply  giving  money  to  any  one  who 
wanted  it.      But  her  father  stopped  that;  besides 


1 66  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

which,  she  felt  disgusted  at  the  crowd  of  suppli- 
cants who  personally,  and  by  letters,  besieged  her 
with  demands  for  money.  Then  she  resolved  to 
apply  to  an  old  man,  known  to  be  a  saint  by  his 
life,  and  to  give  him  her  money  to  dispose  of  in 
the  way  he  thought  best.  Her  father  got  angry 
with  her  when  he  heard  about  it.  During  a  vio- 
lent altercation  he  called  her  mad,  a  raving  luna- 
tic, and  said  he  would  take  measures  to  prevent 
her  from  doing  injury  to  herself.    . 

Her  father's  irritation  proved  contagious. 
Losing  all  control  over  herself,  and  sobbing  with 
rage,  she  behaved  with  the  greatest  impertinence 
to  her  father,  calling  him  a  tyrant  and  a  miser. 

Then  she  asked  his  forgiveness.  He  said  he 
did  not  mind  what  she  said;  but  she  saw  plainly 
that  he  was  offended,  and  in  his  heart  did  not 
forgive  her.  She  did  not  feel  inclined  to  tell 
Mahin  about  her  quarrel  with  her  father;  as  to 
her  sister,  she  was  very  cold  to  Lisa,  being  jealous 
of  Mahin's  love  for  her. 

"  I  ought  to  confess  to  God,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. As  all  this  happened  in  Lent,  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  fast  in  preparation  for  the  communion, 
and  to  reveal  all  her  thoughts  to  the  father  con- 
fessor, asking  his  advice  as  to  what  she  ought  to 
decide  for  the  future. 

At  a  small  distance  from  her  town  a  monastery 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  167 

was  situated,  where  an  old  monk  lived  who  had 
gained  a  great  reputation  by  his  holy  life,  by  his 
sermons  and  prophecies,  as  well  as  by  the  mar- 
vellous cures  ascribed  to  him. 

The  monk  had  received  a  letter  from  Lisa's 
father  announcing  the  visit  of  his  daughter,  and 
telling  him  in  what  a  state  of  excitement  the  young 
girl  was.  He  also  expressed  the  hope  in  that 
letter  that  the  monk  would  influence  her  in  the 
right  way,  urging  her  not  to  depart  from  the 
golden  mean,  and  to  live  like  a  good  Christian 
without  trying  to  upset  the  present  conditions  of 
her  life. 

The  monk  received  Lisa  after  he  had  seen 
many  other  people,  and  being  very  tired,  began 
by  quietly  recommending  her  to  be  modest  and  to 
submit  to  her  present  conditions  of  life  and  to 
her  parents.  Lisa  listened  silently,  blushing  and 
flushed  with  excitement.  When  he  had  finished 
admonishing  her,  she  began  saying  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  timidly  at  first,  that  Christ  bade  us  leave 
father  and  mother  to  follow  Him.  Getting  more 
and  more  excited,  she  told  him  her  conception  of 
Christ.  The  monk  smiled  slightly,  and  replied 
as  he  generally  did  when  admonishing  his  peni- 
tents; but  after  a  while  he  remained  silent, 
repeating  with  heavy  sighs,  "O  God!" 
Then   he    said,    "  Well,    come    to    confession    to- 


1 68  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

morrow,"  and  blessed  her  with  his  wrinkled 
hands. 

The  next  day  Lisa  came  to  confession,  and 
without  renewing  their  interrupted  conversation, 
he  absolved  her  and  refused  to  dispose  of  her  for- 
tune, giving  no  reasons  for  doing  so. 

Lisa's  purity,  her  devotion  to  God  and  her  ar- 
dent soul,  impressed  the  monk  deeply.  He  had 
desired  long  ago  to  renounce  the  world  entirely; 
but  the  brotherhood,  which  drew  a  large  income 
from  his  work  as  a  preacher,  insisted  on  his  con- 
tinuing his  activity.  He  gave  way,  although  he 
had  a  vague  feeling  that  he  was  in  a  false  posi- 
tion. It  was  rumoured  that  he  was  a  miracle- 
working  saint,  whereas  in  reality  he  was  a  weak 
man,  proud  of  his  success  in  the  world.  When 
the  soul  of  Lisa  was  revealed  to  him,  he  saw 
clearly  into  his  own  soul.  He  discovered  how 
different  he  was  to  what  he  wanted  to  be,  and 
realised  the  desire  of  his  heart. 

Soon  after  Lisa's  visit  he  went  to  live  in  a  sep- 
arate cell  as  a  hermit,  and  for  three  weeks  did  not 
officiate  again  in  the  church  of  the  friary.  After 
the  celebration  of  the  mass,  he  preached  a  sermon 
denouncing  his  own  sins  and  those  of  the  world, 
and  urging  all  to  repent. 

From  that  day  he  preached  every  fortnight, 
and   his  sermons   attracted   increasing   audiences. 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  169 

His  fame  as  a  preacher  spread  abroad.  His 
sermons  were  extraordinarily  fearless  and  sin- 
cere, and  deeply  impressed  all  who  listened  to  him. 

XII 

Vassily  was  actually  carrying  out  the  object  he 
had  in  leaving  the  prison.  With  the  help  of  a  few 
friends  he  broke  into  the  house  of  the  rich  mer- 
chant Krasnopuzov,  whom  he  knew  to  be  a  miser 
and  a  debauchee.  Vassily  took  out  of  his  writing- 
desk  thirty  thousand  roubles,  and  began  disposing 
of  them  as  he  thought  right.  He  even  gave  up 
drink,  so  as  not  to  spend  that  money  on  himself, 
but  to  distribute  it  to  the  poor;  helping  poor  girls 
to  get  married;  paying  off  people's  debts,  and  do- 
ing this  all  without  ever  revealing  himself  to  those 
he  helped;  his  only  desire  was  to  distribute  his 
money  in  the  right  way.  As  he  also  gave  bribes 
to  the  police,  he  was  left  in  peace  for  a  long  time. 

His  heart  was  singing  for  joy.  When  at  last 
he  was  arrested  and  put  to  trial,  he  confessed 
with  pride  that  he  had  robbed  the  fat  merchant. 
"  The  money,"  he  said,  "  was  lying  idle  in  that 
fool's  desk,  and  he  did  not  even  know  how  much 
he  had,  whereas  I  have  put  it  into  circulation  arid 
helped  a  lot  of  good  people." 

The  counsel  for  the  defence  spoke  with  such 


170  THE  EORGED  COUPON 

good  humour  and  kindness  that  the  jury  felt  in- 
clined to  discharge  Vassily,  but  sentenced  him 
nevertheless  to  confinement  in  prison.  He 
thanked  the  jury,  and  assured  them  that  he  would 
find  his  way  out  of  prison  before  long. 


XIII 

Natalia  Ivanovna  Sventizky's  telegram 
proved  useless.  The  committee  appointed  to 
deal  with  the  petitions  in  the  Emperor's  name,  de- 
cided not  even  to  make  a  report  to  the  Czar. 
But  one  day  when  the  Sventizky  case  was  dis- 
cussed at  the  Emperor's  luncheon-table,  the  chair- 
man of  the  committee,  who  was  present,  mentioned 
the  telegram  which  had  been  received  from  Sven- 
tizky's widow. 

"  C'est  tres  gentil  de  sa  part,"  said  one  of  the 
ladies  of  the  imperial  family. 

The  Emperor  sighed,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
adorned  with  epaulettes.  "The  law,"  he  said; 
and  raised  his  glass  for  the  groom  of  the  chamber 
to  pour  out  some  Moselle. 

All  those  present  pretended  to  admire  the  wis- 
dom of  the  sovereign's  words.  There  was  no 
further  question  about  the  telegram.  The  two 
peasants,  the  old  man  and  the  young  boy,  were 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  171 

hanged  by  a  Tartar  hangman  from  Kazan,  a  cruel 
convict  and  a  murderer. 

The  old  man's  wife  wanted  to  dress  the  body  of 
her  husband  in  a  white  shirt,  with  white  bands 
which  serve  as  stockings,  and  new  boots,  but  she 
was  not  allowed  to  do  so.  The  two  men  were 
buried  together  in  the  same  pit  outside  the  church- 
yard wall. 

"  Princess  Sofia  Vladimirovna  tells  me  he  is  a 
very  remarkable  preacher,"  remarked  the  old  Em- 
press, the  Emperor's  mother,  one  day  to  her  son: 
"  Fa'ttes  le  venir.     II  pent  precher  a  la  cathedrale." 

"  No,  it  would  be  better  in  the  palace  church," 
said  the  Emperor,  and  ordered  the  hermit  Isidor 
to  be  invited. 

All  the  generals,  and  other  high  officials,  as- 
sembled in  the  church  of  the  imperial  palace;  it 
was  an  event  to  hear  the  famous  preacher. 

A  thin  and  grey  old  man  appeared,  looked  at 
those  present,  and  said:  "  In  the  name  of  God, 
the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,"  and  began  to 
speak. 

At  first  all  went  well,  but  the  longer  he  spoke 
the  worse  it  became.  "  77  devient  de  plus  en  plus 
aggressif,"  as  the  Empress  put  it  afterwards. 
He  fulminated  against  every  one.  He  spoke 
about  the  executions  and  charged  the  government 
with  having  made  so  many  necessary.     How  can 


172  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

the  government  of  a  Christian  country  kill  men? 

Everybody  looked  at  everybody  else,  thinking 
of  the  bad  taste  of  the  sermon,  and  how  unpleas- 
ant it  must  be  for  the  Emperor  to  listen  to  it;  but 
nobody  expressed  these  thoughts  aloud. 

When  Isidor  had  said  Amen,  the  metropolitan 
approached,  and  asked  him  to  call  on  him. 

After  Isidor  had  had  a  talk  with  the  metropol- 
itan and  with  the  attorney-general,  he  was  imme- 
diately sent  away  to  a  friary,  not  his  own,  but  one 
at  Suzdal,  which  had  a  prison  attached  to  it;  the 
prior  of  that  friary  was  now  Father  Missael. 


XIV 

Every  one  tried  to  look  as  if  Isidor's  sermon 
contained  nothing  unpleasant,  and  nobody  men- 
tioned it.  It  seemed  to  the  Czar  that  the  hermit's 
words  had  not  made  any  impression  on  himself; 
but  once  or  twice  during  that  day  he  caught  him- 
self thinking  of  the  two  peasants  who  had  been 
hanged,  and  the  widow  of  Sventizky  who  had 
asked  an  amnesty  for  them.  That  day  the  Em- 
peror had  to  be  present  at  a  parade;  after  which 
he  went  out  for  a  drive;  a  reception  of  ministers 
came  next,  then  dinner,  after  dinner  the  theatre. 
As  usual,  the  Czar  fell  asleep  the  moment  his  head 
touched  the  pillow.     In  the  night  an  awful  dream 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  173 

awoke  him:  he  saw  gallows  in  a  large  field  and 
corpses  dangling  on  them;  the  tongues  of  the 
corpses  were  protruding,  and  their  bodies  moved 
and  shook.  And  somebody  shouted,  "  It  is  you 
—  you  who  have  done  it."  The  Czar  woke  up 
bathed  in  perspiration  and  began  to  think.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  thought  of  the 
responsibilities  which  weighed  on  him,  and  the 
words  of  old  Isidor  came  back  to  his 
mind.     .     .     . 

But  only  dimly  could  he  see  himself  as  a  mere 
human  being,  and  he  could  not  consider  his  mere 
human  wants  and  duties,  because  of  all  that  was 
required  of  him  as  Czar.  As  to  acknowledging 
that  human  duties  were  more  obligatory  than 
those  of  a  Czar  —  he  had  not  strength  for  that. 


XV 

Having  served  his  second  term  in  the  prison,  Pro- 
kofy,  who  had  formerly  worked  on  the  Sventizky 
estate,  was  no  longer  the  brisk,  ambitious,  smartly 
dressed  fellow  he  had  been.  He  seemed,  on  the 
contrary,  a  complete  wreck.  When  sober  he 
would  sit  idle  and  would  refuse  to  do  any  work, 
however  much  his  father  scolded  him;  moreover, 
he  was  continually  seeking  to  get  hold  of  some- 
thing secretly,  and  take  it  to  the  public-house  for 


i74  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

a  drink.  When  he  came  home  he  would  continue 
to  sit  idle,  coughing  and  spitting  all  the  time. 
The  doctor  on  whom  he  called,  examined  his  chest 
and  shook  his  head. 

"  You,  my  man,  ought  to  have  many  things 
which  you  have  not  got." 

"  That  is  usually  the  case,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Take  plenty  of  milk,  and  don't  smoke." 

"These  are  days  of  fasting,  and  besides  we 
have  no  cow." 

Once  in  spring  he  could  not  get  any  sleep;  he 
was  longing  to  have  a  drink.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  house  he  could  lay  his  hand  on  to  take  to 
the  public-house.  He  put  on  his  cap  and  went 
out.  He  walked  along  the  street  up  to  the  house 
where  the  priest  and  the  deacon  lived  together. 
The  deacon's  harrow  stood  outside  leaning  against 
the  hedge.  Prokofy  approached,  took  the  har- 
row upon  his  shoulder,  and  walked  to  an  inn  kept 
by  a  woman,  Petrovna.  She  might  give  him  a 
small  bottle  of  vodka  for  it.  But  he  had  hardly 
gone  a  few  steps  when  the  deacon  came  out  of  his 
house.  It  was  already  dawn,  and  he  saw  that 
Prokofy  was  carrying  away  his  harrow. 

"  Hey,  what's  that?  "  cried  the  deacon. 

The  neighbours  rushed  out  from  their  houses. 
Prokofy  was  seized,  brought  to  the  police  station, 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  175 

and  then  sentenced  to  eleven  months'  imprison- 
ment. It  was  autumn,  and  Prokofy  had  to  be 
transferred  to  the  prison  hospital.  He  was 
coughing  badly;  his  chest  was  heaving  from  the 
exertion ;  and  he  could  not  get  warm.  Those  who 
were  stronger  contrived  not  to  shiver;  Prokofy 
on  the  contrary  shivered  day  and  night,  as  the  su- 
perintendent would  not  light  the  fires  in  the  hos- 
pital till  November,  to  save  expense. 

Prokofy  suffered  greatly  in  body,  and  still  more 
in  soul.  He  was  disgusted  with  his  surroundings, 
and  hated  every  one  —  the  deacon,  the  superin- 
tendent who  would  not  light  the  fires,  the  guard, 
and  the  man  who  was  lying  in  the  bed  next  to  his, 
and  who  had  a  swollen  red  lip.  He  began  also 
to  hate  the  new  convict  who  was  brought  into 
hospital.  This  convict  was  Stepan.  He  was 
suffering  from  some  disease  on  his  head,  and  was 
transferred  to  the  hospital  and  put  in  a  bed  at 
Prokofy's  side.  After  a  time  that  hatred  to 
Stepan  changed,  and  Prokofy  became,  on  the  con- 
trary, extremely  fond  of  him;  he  delighted  in 
talking  to  him.  It  was  only  after  a  talk  with 
Stepan  that  his  anguish  would  cease  for  a  while. 
Stepan  always  told  every  one  he  met  about  his 
last  murder,  and  how  it  had  impressed  him. 

"  Far    from    shrieking,    or    anything    of    that 


i76  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

kind,"  he  said  to  Prokofy,  "  she  did  not  move. 
1  Kill  me !  There  I  am,'  she  said.  '  But  it  is  not 
my  soul  you  destroy,  it  is  your  own.'  " 

"  Well,  of  course,  it  is  very  dreadful  to  kill.  I 
had  one  day  to  slaughter  a  sheep,  and  even  that 
made  me  half  mad.  I  have  not  destroyed  any  liv- 
ing soul;  why  then  do  those  villains  kill  me?  I 
have  done  no  harm  to  anybody     .     .     ." 

"  That  will  be  taken  into  consideration." 

"By  whom?" 

"  By  God,  to  be  sure." 

"  I  have  not  seen  anything  yet  showing  that 
God  exists,  and  I  don't  believe  in  Him,  brother. 
I  think  when  a  man  dies,  grass  will  grow  over 
the  spot,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it." 

"  You  are  wrong  to  think  like  that.  I  have 
murdered  so  many  people,  whereas  she,  poor 
soul,  was  helping  everybody.  And  you  think  she 
and  I  are  to  have  the  same  lot?  Oh  no!  Only 
wait." 

"  Then  you  believe  the  soul  lives  on  after  a 
man  is  dead?  " 

"  To  be  sure;  it  truly  lives." 

Prokofy  suffered  greatly  when  death  drew 
near.  He  could  hardly  breathe.  But  in  the  very 
last  hour  he  felt  suddenly  relieved  from  all  pain. 
He  called  Stepan  to  him.  "  Farewell,  brother," 
he  said.     "  Death  has   come,   I   see.     I  was  so 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  177 

afraid  of  it  before.  And  now  I  don't  mind.  I 
only  wish  it  to  come  quicker." 

XVI 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  affairs  of  Eugene  Mihailo- 
vich  had  grown  worse  and  worse.  Business  was 
very  slack.  There  was  a  new  shop  in  the  town; 
he  was  losing  his  customers,  and  the  interest  had 
to  be  paid.  He  borrowed  again  on  interest.  At 
last  his  shop  and  his  goods  were  to  be  sold  up. 
Eugene  Mihailovich  and  his  wife  applied  to  every 
one  they  knew,  but  they  could  not  raise  the  four 
hundred  roubles  they  needed  to  save  the  shop  any- 
where. 

They  had  some  hope  of  the  merchant  Krasno- 
puzov,  Eugene  Mihailovich's  wife  being  on  good 
terms  with  his  mistress.  But  news  came  that 
Krasnopuzov  had  been  robbed  of  a  huge  sum  of 
money.  Some  said  of  half  a  million  roubles. 
11  And  do  you  know  who  is  said  to  be  the  thief?  " 
said  Eugene  Mihailovich  to  his  wife.  "  Vassily, 
our  former  yard-porter.  They  say  he  is  squan- 
dering the  money,  and  the  police  are  bribed  by 
him." 

"  I  knew  he  was  a  villain.  You  remember  how 
he  did  not  mind  perjuring  himself?  But  I  did 
not  expect  it  would  go  so  far." 


178  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"  I  hear  he  has  recently  been  in  the  courtyard 
of  our  house.  Cook  says  she  is  sure  it  was  he. 
She  told  me  he  helps  poor  girls  to  get  married." 

"  They  always  invent  tales.  I  don't  believe 
it." 

At  that  moment  a  strange  man,  shabbily  dressed, 
entered  the  shop. 

"  What  is  it  you  want?  " 

"  Here  is  a  letter  for  you." 

"  From  whom?  " 

"  You  will  see  yourself." 

"  Don't  you  require  an  answer?  Wait  a  mo- 
ment." 

"  I  cannot."  The  strange  man  handed  the  let- 
ter and  disappeared. 

"How  extraordinary!"  said  Eugene  Mihailo- 
vich,  and  tore  open  the  envelope.  To  his  great 
amazement  several  hundred  rouble  notes  fell  out. 
"  Four  hundred  roubles !  "  he  exclaimed,  hardly 
believing  his  eyes.      "  What  does  it  mean?  " 

The  envelope  also  contained  a  badly-spelt  letter, 
addressed  to  Eugene  Mihailovich.  "  It  is  said  in 
the  Gospels,"  ran  the  letter,  "  do  good  for  evil. 
You  have  done  me  much  harm;  and  in  the  coupon 
case  you  made  me  wrong  the  peasants  greatly. 
But  I  have  pity  for  you.  Here  are  four  hundred 
notes.  Take  them,  and  remember  your  porter 
Vassily." 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  179 

"Very  extraordinary!"  said  Eugene  Mihailo- 
vich  to  his  wife  and  to  himself.  And  each  time 
he  remembered  that  incident,  or  spoke  about  it 
to  his  wife,  tears  would  come  to  his  eyes. 

XVII 

Fourteen  priests  were  kept  in  the  Suzdal  friary 
prison,  chiefly  for  having  been  untrue  to  the  or- 
thodox faith.  Isidor  had  been  sent  to  that  place 
also.  Father  Missael  received  him  according  to 
the  instructions  he  had  been  given,  and  without 
talking  to  him  ordered  him  to  be  put  into  a  sep- 
arate cell  as  a  serious  criminal.  After  a  fort- 
night Father  Missael,  making  a  round  of  the 
priso.i,  entered  Isidor's  cell,  and  asked  him 
whether  there  was  anything  he  wished  for. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  I  wish  for,"  answered 
Isidor;  "but  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  is  in  the 
presence  of  anybody  else.  Let  me  talk  to  you 
privately." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  Missael  saw  he 
had  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  in  remaining  alone 
with  Isidor.  He  ordered  Isidor  to  be  brought 
into  his  own  room,  and  when  they  were  alone,  he 
said, — 

"  Well,  now  you  can  speak." 

Isidor  fell  on  his  knees. 


180  THE  FORGED  COUPON 

"  Brother,"  said  Isidor.  "  What  are  you  do- 
ing to  yourself!  Have  mercy  on  your  own  soul. 
You  are  the  worst  villain  in  the  world.  You  have 
offended  against  all  that  is  sacred     .     .     ." 

A  month  after  Missael  sent  a  report,  asking 
that  Isidor  should  be  released  as  he  had  repented, 
and  he  also  asked  for  the  release  of  the  rest  of 
the  prisoners.     After  which  he  resigned  his  post. 

XVIII 

Ten  years  passed.  Mitia  Smokovnikov  had  fin- 
ished his  studies  in  the  Technical  College;  he  was 
now  an  engineer  in  the  gold  mines  in  Siberia,  and 
was  very  highly  paid.  One  day  he  was  about  to 
make  a  round  in  the  district.  The  governor  of- 
fered him  a  convict,  Stepan  Pelageushkine,  to  ac- 
company him  on  his  journey. 

"  A  convict,  you  say?  But  is  not  that  danger- 
ous?" 

"  Not  if  it  is  this  one.  He  is  a  holy  man.  You 
may  ask  anybody,  they  will  all  tell  you  so." 

"Why  has  he  been  sent  here?" 

The  governor  smiled.  "  He  had  committed  six 
murders,  and  yet  he  is  a  holy  man.  I  go  bail  for 
him." 

Mitia  Smokovnikov  took  Stepan,  now  a  bald- 


THE  FORGED  COUPON  181 

headed,  lean,  tanned  man,  with  him  on  his  journey. 
On  their  way  Stepan  took  care  of  Smokovnikov 
like  his  own  child,  and  told  him  his  story;  told 
him  why  he  had  been  sent  here,  and  what  now 
filled  his  life. 

And,  strange  to  say,  Mitia  Smokovnikov,  who 
up  to  that  time  used  to  spend  his  time  drinking, 
eating,  and  gambling,  began  for  the  first  time  to 
meditate  on  life.  These  thoughts  never  left  him 
now,  and  produced  a  complete  change  in  his  habits. 
After  a  time  he  was  offered  a  very  advantageous 
position.  He  refused  it,  and  made  up  his  mind 
to  buy  an  estate  with  the  money  he  had,  to  marry, 
and  to  devote  himself  to  the  peasantry,  helping 
them  as  much  as  he  could. 


XIX 

He  carried  out  his  intentions.  But  before  retiring 
to  his  estate  he  called  on  his  father,  with  whom 
he  had  been  on  bad  terms,  and  who  had  settled 
apart  with  his  new  family.  Mitia  Smokovnikov 
wanted  to  make  it  up.  The  old  man  wondered  at 
first,  and  laughed  at  the  change  he  noticed  in  his 
son;  but  after  a  while  he  ceased  to  find  fault  with 
him,  and  thought  of  the  many  times  when  it  was 
he  who  was  the  guilty  one. 


AFTER  THE  DANCE 


AFTER  THE  DANCE 

" — And  you  say  that  a  man  cannot,  of  himself, 
understand  what  is  good  and  evil;  that  it  is  all 
environment,  that  the  environment  swamps  the 
man.  But  I  believe  it  is  all  chance.  Take  my 
own  case     .     .     ." 

Thus  spoke  our  excellent  friend,  Ivan  Vasilie- 
vich,  after  a  conversation  between  us  on  the  impos- 
sibility of  improving  individual  character  without 
a  change  of  the  conditions  under  which  men  live. 
Nobody  had  actually  said  that  one  could  not  of 
oneself  understand  good  and  evil;  but  it  was  a 
habit  of  Ivan  Vasilievich  to  answer  in  this  way  the 
thoughts  aroused  in  his  own  mind  by  conversation, 
and  to  illustrate  those  thoughts  by  relating  inci- 
dents in  his  own  life.  He  often  quite  forgot  the 
reason  for  his  story  in  telling  it;  but  he  always  told 
it  with  great  sincerity  and  feeling. 

He  did  so  now. 

"  Take  my  own  case.  My  whole  life  was 
moulded,  not  by  environment,  but  by  something 
quite  different." 

"  By  what,  then?"  we  asked. 

"  Oh,  that  is  a  long  story.  I  should  have  to 
185 


1 86  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

tell  you  about  a  great  many  things  to  make  you 
understand." 

"  Well,  tell  us  then." 

Ivan  Vasilievich  thought  a  little,  and  shook  his 
head. 

"  My  whole  life,"  he  said,  "  was  changed  in  one 
night,  or,  rather,  morning." 

"  Why,  what  happened?  "  one  of  us  asked. 

"  What  happened  was  that  I  was  very  much  in 
love.  I  have  been  in  love  many  times,  but  this 
was  the  most  serious  of  all.  It  is  a  thing  of  the 
past;   she  has  married   daughters   now.     It  was 

Varinka  B -."      Ivan  Vasilievich  mentioned  her 

surname.  "  Even  at  fifty  she  is  remarkably  hand- 
some; but  in  her  youth,  at  eighteen,  she  was  ex- 
quisite —  tall,  slender,  graceful,  and  stately.  Yes, 
stately  is  the  word;  she  held  herself  very  erect,  by 
instinct  as  it  were;  and  carried  her  head  high,  and 
that  together  with  her  beauty  and  height  gave  her 
a  queenly  air  in  spite  of  being  thin,  even  bony  one 
might  say.  It  might  indeed  have  been  deterring 
had  it  not  been  for  her  smile,  which  was  always 
gay  and  cordial,  and  for  the  charming  light  in 
her  eyes  and  for  her  youthful  sweetness." 

"  What  an  entrancing  description  you  give,  Ivan 
Vasilievich !  " 

"  Description,  indeed  !  I  could  not  possibly  de- 
scribe her  so  that  you  could  appreciate  her.     But 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  187 

that  does  not  matter;  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
happened  in  the  forties.  I  was  at  that  time  a 
student  in  a  provincial  university.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  was  a  good  thing  or  no,  but  we  had  no 
political  clubs,  no  theories  in  our  universities  then. 
We  were  simply  young  and  spent  our  time  as  young 
men  do,  studying  and  amusing  ourselves.  I  was  a 
very  gay,  lively,  careless  fellow,  and  had  plenty  of 
money  too.  I  had  a  fine  horse,  and  used  to  go 
tobogganing  with  the  young  ladies.  Skating  had 
not  yet  come  into  fashion.  I  went  to  drinking 
parties  with  my  comrades  —  in  those  days  we 
drank  nothing  but  champagne  —  if  we  had  no 
champagne  we  drank  nothing  at  all.  We  never 
drank  vodka,  as  they  do  now.  Evening  parties 
and  balls  were  my  favourite  amusements.  I 
danced  well,  and  was  not  an  ugly  fellow." 

"  Come,  there  is  no  need  to  be  modest,"  inter- 
rupted a  lady  near  him.  "  We  have  seen  your 
photograph.  Not  ugly,  indeed!  You  were  a 
handsome  fellow." 

"  Handsome,  if  you  like.  That  does  not  mat- 
ter. When  my  love  for  her  was  at  its  strongest, 
on  the  last  day  of  the  carnival,  I  was  at  a  ball  at 
the  provincial  marshal's,  a  good-natured  old  man, 
rich  and  hospitable,  and  a  court  chamberlain.  The 
guests  were  welcomed  by  his  wife,  who  was  as 
good-natured    as    himself.     She    was    dressed    in 


1 88  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

puce-coloured  velvet,  and  had  a  diamond  diadem 
on  her  forehead,  and  her  plump,  old  white  shoul- 
ders and  bosom  were  bare  like  the  portraits  of 
Empress  Elizabeth,  the  daughter  of  Peter  the 
Great. 

"  It  was  a  delightful  ball.  It  was  a  splendid 
room,  with  a  gallery  for  the  orchestra,  which  was 
famous  at  the  time,  and  consisted  of  serfs  belong- 
ing to  a  musical  landowner.  The  refreshments 
were  magnificent,  and  the  champagne  flowed  in 
rivers.  Though  I  was  fond  of  champagne  I  did 
not  drink  that  night,  because  without  it  I  was 
drunk  with  love.  But  I  made  up  for  it  by  danc- 
ing waltzes  and  polkas  till  I  was  ready  to  drop  — 
of  course,  whenever  possible,  with  Varinka.  She 
wore  a  white  dress  with  a  pink  sash,  white  shoes, 
and  white  kid  gloves,  which  did  not  quite  reach  to 
her  thin  pointed  elbows.  A  disgusting  engineer 
named  Anisimov  robbed  me  of  the  mazurka  with 
her  —  to  this  day  I  cannot  forgive  him.  He  asked 
her  for  the  dance  the  minute  she  arrived,  while 
I  had  driven  to  the  hair-dresser's  to  get  a  pair  of 
gloves,  and  was  late.  So  I  did  not  dance  the 
mazurka  with  her,  but  with  a  German  girl  to  whom 
I  had  previously  paid  a  little  attention;  but  I  am 
afraid  I  did  not  behave  very  politely  to  her  that 
evening.  I  hardly  spoke  or  looked  at  her,  and  saw 
nothing  but  the  tall,  slender  figure  in  a  white  dress, 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  189 

with  a  pink  sash,  a  flushed,  beaming,  dimpled 
face,  and  sweet,  kind  eyes.  I  was  not  alone ;  they 
were  all  looking  at  her  with  admiration,  the  men 
and  women  alike,  although  she  outshone  all  of 
them.     They  could  not  help  admiring  her. 

"  Although  I  was  not  nominally  her  partner  for 
the  mazurka,  I  did  as  a  matter  of  fact  dance  nearly 
the  whole  time  with  her.  She  always  came  for- 
ward boldly  the  whole  length  of  the  room  to  pick 
me  out.  I  flew  to  meet  her  without  waiting  to  be 
chosen,  and  she  thanked  me  with  a  smile  for  my 
intuition.  When  I  was  brought  up  to  her  with 
somebody  else,  and  she  guessed  wrongly,  she  took 
the  other  man's  hand  with  a  shrug  of  her  slim 
shoulders,  and  smiled  at  me  regretfully. 

"  Whenever  there  was  a  waltz  figure  in  the 
mazurka,  I  waltzed  with  her  for  a  long  time,  and 
breathing  fast  and  smiling,  she  would  say,  '  En- 
core ' ;  and  I  went  on  waltzing  and  waltzing,  as 
though   unconscious   of   any  bodily   existence." 

"  Come  now,  how  could  you  be  unconscious  of 
it  with  your  arm  round  her  waist?  You  must 
have  been  conscious,  not  only  of  your  own  exist- 
ence, but  of  hers,"  said  one  of  the  party. 

Ivan  Vasilievich  cried  out,  almost  shouting  in 
anger:  "  There  you  are,  moderns  all  over!  Now- 
adays you  think  of  nothing  but  the  body.  It  was 
different  in  our  day.     The  more  I  was  in  love  the 


190  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

less  corporeal  was  she  in  my  eyes.  Nowadays  you 
think  of  nothing  but  the  body.  It  was  different 
in  our  day.  The  more  I  was  in  love  the  less  cor- 
poreal was  she  in  my  eyes.  Nowadays  you  see 
legs,  ankles,  and  I  don't  know  what.  You  undress 
the  women  you  are  in  love  with.  In  my  eyes,  as 
Alphonse  Karr  said  —  and  he  was  a  good  writer 
— '  the  one  1  loved  was  always  draped  in  robes  of 
bronze.'  We  never  thought  of  doing  so;  we  tried 
to  veil  her  nakedness,  like  Noah's  good-natured 
son.      Oh,  well,  you  can't  understand." 

"  Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him.  Go  on,"  said 
one  of  them. 

"  Well,  I  danced  for  the  most  part  with  her, 
and  did  not  notice  how  time  was  passing.  The 
musicians  kept  playing  the  same  mazurka  tunes 
over  and  over  again  in  desperate  exhaustion  —  you 
know  what  it  is  towards  the  end  of  a  ball.  Papas 
and  mammas  were  already  getting  up  from  the 
card-tables  in  the  drawing-room  in  expectation  of 
supper,  the  men-servants  were  running  to  and 
fro  bringing  in  things.  It  was  nearly  three 
o'clock.  I  had  to  make  the  most  of  the  last 
minutes.  I  chose  her  again  for  the  mazurka,  and 
for  the  hundredth  time  we  danced  across  the 
room. 

"'The  quadrille  after  supper  is  mine,'  I  said, 
taking  her  to  her  place. 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  191 

"  '  Of  course,  if  I  am  not  carried  off  home,'  she 
said,  with  a  smile. 

"  '  I  won't  give  you  up,'  I  said. 

"  '  Give  me  my  fan,  anyhow,'  she  answered. 

'"lam  so  sorry  to  part  with  it,'  I  said,  handing 
her  a  cheap  white  fan. 

"  '  Well,  here's  something  to  console  you,'  she 
said,  plucking  a  feather  out  of  the  fan,  and  giving 
it  to  me. 

"  I  took  the  feather,  and  could  only  express  my 
rapture  and  gratitude  with  my  eyes.  I  was  not 
only  pleased  and  gay,  I  was  happy,  delighted;  I 
was  good,  I  was  not  myself  but  some  being  not 
of  this  earth,  knowing  nothing  of  evil.  I  hid  the 
feather  in  my  glove,  and  stood  there  unable  to 
tear  myself  away  from  her. 

"  '  Look,  they  are  urging  father  to  dance,'  she 
said  to  me,  pointing  to  the  tall,  stately  figure  of 
her  father,  a  colonel  with  silver  epaulettes,  who 
was  standing  in  the  doorway  with  some  ladies. 

"  '  Varinka,  come  here !  '  exclaimed  our  hostess, 
the  lady  with  the  diamond  ferronniere  and  with 
shoulders  like  Elizabeth,  in  a  loud  voice. 

"  Varinka  went  to  the  door,  and  I  followed  her. 

"  '  Persuade  your  father  to  dance  the  mazurka 
with  you,  ma  chere. — Do,  please,  Peter  Valdislavo- 
vich,'  she  said,  turning  to  the  colonel. 

"  Varinka's  father  was  a  very  handsome,  well- 


192  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

preserved  old  man.  He  had  a  good  colour,  mous- 
taches curled  in  the  style  of  Nicolas  I.,  and  white 
whiskers  which  met  the  moustaches.  His  hair  was 
combed  on  to  his  forehead,  and  a  bright  smile, 
like  his  daughter's,  was  on  his  lips  and  in  his  eyes. 
He  was  splendidly  set  up,  with  a  broad  military 
chest,  on  which  he  wore  some  decorations,  and  he 
had  powerful  shoulders  and  long  slim  legs.  He 
was  that  ultra-military  type  produced  by  the  disci- 
pline of  Emperor  Nicolas  I. 

"  When  we  approached  the  door  the  colonel  was 
just  refusing  to  dance,  saying  that  he  had  quite  for- 
gotten how;  but  at  that  instant  he  smiled,  swung 
his  arm  gracefully  around  to  the  left,  drew  his 
sword  from  its  sheath,  handed  it  to  an  obliging 
young  man  who  stood  near,  and  smoothed  his 
suede  glove  on  his  right  hand. 

"  '  Everything  must  be  done  according  to  rule,' 
he  said  with  a  smile.  He  took  the  hand  of  his 
daughter,  and  stood  one-quarter  turned,  waiting 
for  the  music. 

"  At  the  first  sound  of  the  mazurka,  he  stamped 
one  foot  smartly,  threw  the  other  forward,  and, 
at  first  slowly  and  smoothly,  then  buoyantly  and 
impetuously,  with  stamping  of  feet  and  clicking  of 
boots,  his  tall,  imposing  figure  moved  the  length 
of  the  room.  Varinka  swayed  gracefully  beside 
him,   rhythmically  and   easily,   making  her  steps 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  193 

short  or  long,  with  her  little  feet  in  their  white  satin 
slippers. 

"  All  the  people  in  the  room  followed  every 
movement  of  the  couple.  As  for  me  I  not  only  ad- 
mired, I  regarded  them  with  enraptured  sym- 
pathy. I  was  particularly  impressed  with  the  old 
gentleman's  boots.  They  were  not  the  modern 
pointed  affairs,  but  were  made  of  cheap  leather, 
squared-toed,  and  evidently  built  by  the  regimental 
cobbler.  In  order  that  his  daughter  might  dress 
and  go  out  in  society,  he  did  not  buy  fashionable 
boots,  but  wore  home-made  ones,  I  thought,  and 
his  square  toes  seemed  to  me  most  touching.  It 
was  obvious  that  in  his  time  he  had  been  a  good 
dancer;  but  now  he  was  too  heavy,  and  his  legs  had 
not  cpring  enough  for  all  the  beautiful  steps  he 
tried  to  take.  Still,  he  contrived  to  go  twice  round 
the  room.  When  at  the  end,  standing  with  legs 
apart,  he  suddenly  clicked  his  feet  together  and  fell 
on  one  knee,  a  bit  heavily,  and  she  danced  grace- 
fully around  him,  smiling  and  adjusting  her  skirt, 
the  whole  room  applauded. 

"  Rising  with  an  effort,  he  tenderly  took  his 
daughter's  face  between  his  hands.  He  kissed  her 
on  the  forehead,  and  brought  her  to  me,  under  the 
impression  that  I  was  her  partner  for  the  mazurka. 
I  said  I  was  not.  '  Well,  never  mind.  Just  go 
around  the  room  once  with  her,'  he  said,  smil- 


i94  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

ing    kindly,    as    he    replaced    his    sword    in    the 
sheath. 

"  As  the  contents  of  a  bottle  flow  readily  when 
the  first  drop  has  been  poured,  so  my  love  for 
Varinka  seemed  to  set  free  the  whole  force  of  lov- 
ing within  me.  In  surrounding  her  it  embraced  the 
world.  I  loved  the  hostess  with  her  diadem  and 
her  shoulders  like  Elizabeth,  and  her  husband  and 
her  guests  and  her  footmen,  and  even  the  engineer 
Anisimov  who  felt  peevish  towards  me.  As  for 
Varinka's  father,  with  his  home-made  boots  and 
his  kind  smile,  so  like  her  own,  I  felt  a  sort  of  ten- 
derness for  him  that  was  almost  rapture. 

"  After  supper  I  danced  the  promised  quadrille 
with  her,  and  though  I  had  been  infinitely  happy 
before,   I   grew  still  happier  every  moment. 

"  We  did  not  speak  of  love.  I  neither  asked 
myself  nor  her  whether  she  loved  me.  It  was 
quite  enough  to  know  that  I  loved  her.  And  I  had 
only  one  fear  —  that  something  might  come  to  in- 
terfere with  my  great  joy. 

"  When  I  went  home,  and  began  to  undress  for 
the  night,  I  found  it  quite  out  of  the  question.  I 
held  the  little  feather  out  of  her  fan  in  my  hand, 
and  one  of  her  gloves  which  she  gave  me  when  I 
helped  her  into  the  carriage  after  her  mother. 
Looking  at  these  things,  and  without  closing  my 
eyes  I  could  see  her  before  me  as  she  was  for  an 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  195 

instant  when  she  had  to  choose  between  two  part- 
ners. She  tried  to  guess  what  kind  of  person 
was  represented  in  me,  and  I  could  hear  her 
sweet  voice  as  she  said,  '  Pride  — ■  am  I  right  ?  '  and 
merrily  gave  me  her  hand.  At  supper  she  took  the 
first  sip  from  my  glass  of  champagne,  looking  at 
me  over  the  rim  with  her  caressing  glance.  But, 
plainest  of  all,  I  could  see  her  as  she  danced  with 
her  father,  gliding  along  beside  him,  and  looking 
at  the  admiring  observers  with  pride  and  happi- 
ness. 

"  He  and  she  were  united  in  my  mind  in  one 
rush  of  pathetic  tenderness. 

"  I  was  living  then  with  my  brother,  who  has 
since  died.  He  disliked  going  out,  and  never  went 
to  dances;  and  besides,  he  was  busy  preparing  for 
his  last  university  examinations,  and  was  leading  a 
very  regular  life.  He  was  asleep.  I  looked  at 
him,  his  head  buried  in  the  pillow  and  half  covered 
with  the  quilt;  and  I  affectionately  pitied  him — ■ 
pitied  him  for  his  ignorance  of  the  bliss  I  was  ex- 
periencing. Our  serf  Petrusha  had  met  me  with  a 
candle,  ready  to  undress  me,  but  I  sent  him  away. 
His  sleepy  face  and  tousled  hair  seemed  to  me  so 
touching.  Trying  not  to  make  a  noise,  I  went  to 
my  room  on  tiptoe  and  sat  down  on  my  bed.  No, 
I  was  too  happy;  I  could  not  sleep.  Besides,  it 
was  too  hot  in  the  rooms.     Without  taking  off  my 


i96  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

uniform,  I  went  quietly  into  the  hall,  put  on  my 
overcoat,  opened  the  front  door  and  stepped  out 
into  the  street. 

"  It  was  after  four  when  I  had  left  the  ball; 
going  home  and  stopping  there  a  while  had  occu- 
pied two  hours,  so  by  the  time  I  went  out  it  was 
dawn.  It  was  regular  carnival  weather  —  foggy, 
and  the  road  full  of  water-soaked  snow  just  melt- 
ing, and  water  dripping  from  the  eaves.  Varin- 
ka's  family  lived  on  the  edge  of  town  near  a  large 
field,  one  end  of  which  was  a  parade  ground:  at 
the  other  end  was  a  boarding-school  for  young 
ladies.  I  passed  through  our  empty  little  street 
and  came  to  the  main  thoroughfare,  where  I  met 
pedestrians  and  sledges  laden  with  wood,  the  run- 
ners grating  the  road.  The  horses  swung  with 
regular  paces  beneath  their  shining  yokes,  their 
backs  covered  with  straw  mats  and  their  heads  wet 
with  rain;  while  the  drivers,  in  enormous  boots, 
splashed  through  the  mud  beside  the  sledges.  All 
this,  the  very  horses  themselves,  seemed  to  me 
stimulating  and  fascinating,  full  of  suggestion. 

"  When  I  approached  the  field  near  their  house, 
I  saw  at  one  end  of  it,  in  the  direction  of  the  pa- 
rade ground,  something  very  huge  and  black,  and 
I  heard  sounds  of  fife  and  drum  proceeding  from 
it.  My  heart  had  been  full  of  song,  and  I  had 
heard   in   imagination   the   tune   of  the  mazurka, 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  197 

but  this  was  very  harsh  music.  It  was  not  pleas- 
ant. 

"'What  can  that  be?'  I  thought,  and  went 
towards  the  sound  by  a  slippery  path  through  the 
centre  of  the  field.  Walking  about  a  hundred 
paces,  I  began  to  distinguish  many  black  objects 
through  the  mist.  They  were  evidently  soldiers. 
'  It  is  probably  a  drill,'  I  thought. 

"  So  I  went  along  in  that  direction  in  company 
with  a  blacksmith,  who  wore  a  dirty  coat  and  an 
apron,  and  was  carrying  something.  He  walked 
ahead  of  me  as  we  approached  the  place.  The 
soldiers  in  black  uniforms  stood  in  two  rows,  fac- 
ing each  other  motionless,  their  guns  at  rest.  Be- 
hind them  stood  the  fifes  and  drums,  incessantly 
repeating  the  same  unpleasant  tune. 

"'What  are  they  doing?'  I  asked  the  black- 
smith, who  halted  at  my  side. 

"  '  A  Tartar  is  being  beaten  through  the  ranks 
for  his  attempt  to  desert,'  said  the  blacksmith  in 
an  angry  tone,  as  he  looked  intently  at  the  far  end 
of  the  line. 

"  I  looked  in  the  same  direction,  and  saw  be- 
tween the  files  something  horrid  approaching  me. 
The  thing  that  approached  was  a  man,  stripped 
to  the  waist,  fastened  with  cords  to  the  guns  of  two 
soldiers  who  were  leading  him.  At  his  side  an 
officer  in  overcoat  and  cap  was  walking,  whose 


198  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

figure  had  a  familiar  look.  The  victim  advanced 
under  the  Mows  that  rained  upon  him  from  both 
sides,  his  whole  body  plunging,  his  feet  dragging 
through  the  snow.  Now  he  threw  himself  back- 
ward, and  the  subalterns  who  led  him  thrust  him 
forward.  Now  he  fell  forward,  and  they  pulled 
him  up  short;  while  ever  at  his  side  marched  the 
tall  officer,  with  firm  and  nervous  pace.  It  was 
Varinka's  father,  with  his  rosy  face  and  white 
moustache. 

"  At  each  stroke  the  man,  as  if  amazed,  turned 
his  face,  grimacing  with  pain,  towards  the  side 
whence  the  blow  came,  and  showing  his  white  teeth 
repeated  the  same  words  over  and  over.  But  I 
could  only  hear  what  the  words  were  when  he  came 
quite  near.  He  did  not  speak  them,  he  sobbed 
them  out, — 

"  '  Brothers,  have  mercy  on  me !  Brothers,  have 
mercy  on  me !  '  But  the  brothers  had  no  mercy, 
and  when  the  procession  came  close  to  me,  I  saw 
how  a  soldier  who  stood  opposite  me  took  a  firm 
step  forward  and  lifting  his  stick  with  a  whirr, 
brought  it  down  upon  the  man's  back.  The  man 
plunged  forward,  but  the  subalterns  pulled  him 
back,  and  another  blow  came  down  from  the  other 
side,  then  from  this  side  and  then  from  the  other. 
The  colonel  marched  beside  him,  and  looking  now 
at  his  feet  and  now  at  the  man,  inhaled  the  air, 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  199 

puffed  out  his  cheeks,  and  breathed  it  out  between 
his  protruded  lips.  When  they  passed  the  place 
where  I  stood,  I  caught  a  glimpse  between  the  two 
files  of  the  back  of  the  man  that  was  being  pun- 
ished. It  was  something  so  many-coloured,  wet, 
red,  unnatural,  that  I  could  hardly  believe  it  was  a 
human  body. 

"  '  My  God!  '  muttered  the  blacksmith. 

"  The  procession  moved  farther  away.  The 
blows  continued  to  rain  upon  the  writhing,  falling 
creature;  the  fifes  shrilled  and  the  drums  beat,  and 
the  tall  imposing  figure  of  the  colonel  moved  along- 
side the  man,  just  as  before.  Then,  suddenly,  the 
colonel  stopped,  and  rapidly  approached  a  man  in 
the  ranks. 

"  '  I'll  teach  you  to  hit  him  gently,'  I  heard  his 
furious  voice  say.  'Will  you  pat  him  like  that? 
Will  you?  '  and  I  saw  how  his  strong  hand  in  the 
suede  glove  struck  the  weak,  bloodless,  terrified 
soldier  for  not  bringing  down  his  stick  with  suffi- 
cient strength  on  the  red  neck  of  the  Tartar. 

"'Bring  new  sticks!'  he  cried,  and  looking 
round,  he  saw  me.  Assuming  an  air  of  not  know- 
ing me,  and  with  a  ferocious,  angry  frown,  he 
hastily  turned  away.  I  felt  so  utterly  ashamed 
that  I  didn't  know  where  to  look.  It  was  as  if  I 
had  been  detected  in  a  disgraceful  act.  I  dropped 
my  eyes,  and  quickly  hurried  home.     All  the  way 


2oo  AFTER  THE  DANCE 

I  had  the  drums  beating  and  the  fifes  whistling  in 
my  ears.  And  I  heard  the  words,  '  Brothers,  have 
mercy  on  me!  '  or  'Will  you  pat  him?  Will 
you  ?  '  My  heart  was  full  of  physical  disgust  that 
was  almost  sickness.  So  much  so  that  I  halted  sev- 
eral times  on  my  way,  for  I  had  the  feeling  that  I 
was  going  to  be  really  sick  from  all  the  horrors 
that  possessed  me  at  that  sight.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber how  I  got  home  and  got  to  bed.  But  the  mo- 
ment I  was  about  to  fall  asleep  I  heard  and  saw 
again  all  that  had  happened,  and  I  sprang  up. 

"  '  Evidently  he  knows  something  I  do  not 
know,'  I  thought  about  the  colonel.  '  If  I  knew 
what  he  knows  I  should  certainly  grasp  —  under- 
stand —  what  I  have  just  seen,  and  it  would  not 
cause  me  such  suffering.' 

"  But  however  much  I  thought  about  it,  I  could 
not  understand  the  thing  that  the  colonel  knew. 
It  was  evening  before  I  could  get  to  sleep,  and  then 
only  after  calling  on  a  friend  and  drinking  till  I 
was  quite  drunk. 

"  Do  you  think  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  deed  I  had  witnessed  was  wicked?  Oh,  no. 
Since  it  was  done  with  such  assurance,  and  was  rec- 
ognised by  every  one  as  indispensable,  they  doubt- 
less knew  something  which  I  did  not  know.  So  I 
thought,  and  tried  to  understand.  But  no  matter, 
I  could  never  understand  it,  then  or  afterwards. 


AFTER  THE  DANCE  201 

And  not  being  able  to  grasp  it,  I  could  not  enter 
the  service  as  I  had  intended.  I  don't  mean  only 
the  military  service:  I  did  not  enter  the  Civil  Serv- 
ice either.  And  so  I  have  been  of  no  use  whatever, 
as  you  can  see." 

"  Yes,  we  know  how  useless  you've  been,"  said 
one  of  us.  'rTell  us,  rather,  how  many  people 
would  be  of  any  use  at  all  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
you." 

"  Oh,  that's  utter  nonsense,"  said  Ivan  Vasilie- 
vich,  with  genuine  annoyance. 

"Well;  and  what  about  the  love  affair?" 

"  My  love?  It  decreased  from  that  day. 
When,  as  often  happened,  she  looked  dreamy  and 
meditative,  I  instantly  recollected  the  colonel  on 
the  parade  ground,  and  I  felt  so  awkward  and 
uncomfortable  that  I  began  to  see  her  less  fre- 
quently. So  my  love  came  to  naught.  Yes;  such 
chances  arise,  and  they  alter  and  direct  a  man's 
whole  life,"  he  said  in  summing  up.  "  And  you 
say     .     .     ." 


ALYOSHA  THE  POT 


ALYOSHA  THE  POT 

Alyosha  was  the  younger  brother.  He  was 
called  the  Pot,  because  his  mother  had  once  sent 
him  with  a  pot  of  milk  to  the  deacon's  wife,  and  he 
had  stumbled  against  something  and  broken  it. 
His  mother  had  beaten  him,  and  the  children  had 
teased  him.  Since  then  he  was  nicknamed  the  Pot. 
Alyosha  was  a  tiny,  thin  little  fellow,  with  ears  like 
wings,  and  a  huge  nose.  "  Alyosha  has  a  nose  that 
looks  like  a  dog  on  a  hill!  "  the  children  used  to 
call  after  him.  Alyosha  went  to  the  village 
school,  but  was  not  good  at  lessons;  besides,  there 
was  so  little  time  to  learn.  His  elder  brother  was 
in  town,  working  for  a  merchant,  so  Alyosha  had 
to  help  his  father  from  a  very  early  age.  When 
he  was  no  more  than  six  he  used  to  go  out  with  the 
girls  to  watch  the  cows  and  sheep  in  the  pasture, 
and  a  little  later  he  looked  after  the  horses  by 
day  and  by  night.  And  at  twelve  years  of  age  he 
had  already  begun  to  plough  and  to  drive  the  cart. 
The  skill  was  there  though  the  strength  was  not. 
He  was  always  cheerful.  Whenever  the  children 
made  fun  of  him,  he  would  either  laugh  or  be 
silent.  When  his  father  scolded  him  he  would 
205 


2o6  ALYOSHA  THE  POT 

stand  mute  and  listen  attentively,  and  as  soon  as 
the  scolding  was  over  would  smile  and  go  on  with 
his  work.  Alyosha  was  nineteen  when  his  brother 
was  taken  as  a  soldier.  So  his  father  placed  him 
with  the  merchant  as  a  yard-porter.  He  was  given 
his  brother's  old  boots,  his  father's  old  coat  and 
cap,  and  was  taken  to  town.  Alyosha  was  de- 
lighted with  his  clothes,  but  the  merchant  was  not 
impressed  by  his  appearance. 

"  I  thought  you  would  bring  me  a  man  in  Sime- 
on's place,"  he  said,  scanning  Alyosha;  "and 
you've  brought  me  this!  What's  the  good  of 
him?" 

"  He  can  do  everything;  look  after  horses  and 
drive.  He's  a  good  one  to  work.  He  looks 
rather  thin,  but  he's  tough  enough.  And  he's  very 
willing." 

"  He  looks  it.  All  right;  we'll  see  what  we  can 
do  with  him." 

So  Alyosha  remained  at  the  merchant's. 

The  family  was  not  a  large  one.  It  consisted 
of  the  merchant's  wife:  her  old  mother:  a  married 
son  poorly  educated  who  was  in  his  father's  busi- 
ness: another  son,  a  learned  one  who  had  finished 
school  and  entered  the  University,  but  having  been 
expelled,  was  living  at  home:  and  a  daughter  who 
still  went  to  school. 

They  did  not  take  to  Alyosha  at  first.      He  was 


ALYOSHA  THE  POT  207 

uncouth,  badly  dressed,  and  had  no  manner,  but 
they  soon  got  used  to  him.  Alyosha  worked  even 
better  than  his  brother  had  done;  he  was  really 
very  willing.  They  sent  him  on  all  sorts  of  er- 
rands, but  he  did  everything  quickly  and  readily, 
going  from  one  task  to  another  without  stopping. 
And  so  here,  just  as  at  home,  all  the  work  was  put 
upon  his  shoulders.  The  more  he  did,  the  more 
he  was  given  to  do.  His  mistress,  her  old  mother, 
the  son,  the  daughter,  the  clerk,  and  the  cook  —  all 
ordered  him  about,  and  sent  him  from  one  place 
to  another. 

"Alyosha,  do  this!  Alyosha,  do  that! 
What!  have  you  forgotten,  Alyosha?  Mind  you 
don't  forget,  Alyosha  !  "  was  heard  from  morning 
till  night.  And  Alyosha  ran  here,  looked  after  this 
and  that,  forgot  nothing,  found  time  for  every- 
thing, and  was  always  cheerful. 

His  brother's  old  boots  were  soon  worn  out, 
and  his  master  scolded  him  for  going  about  in  tat- 
ters with  his  toes  sticking  out.  He  ordered  an- 
other pair  to  be  bought  for  him  in  the  market. 
Alyosha  was  delighted  with  his  new  boots,  but  was 
angry  with  his  feet  when  they  ached  at  the  end  of 
the  day  after  so  much  running  about.  And  then 
he  was  afraid  that  his  father  would  be  annoyed 
when  he  came  to  town  for  his  wages,  to  find  that 
his  master  had  deducted  the  cost  of  the  boots. 


208  ALYOSHA  THE  POT 

In  the  winter  Alyosha  used  to  get  up  before  day- 
break. He  would  chop  the  wood,  sweep  the  yard, 
feed  the  cows  and  horses,  light  the  stoves,  clean 
the  boots,  prepare  the  samovars  and  polish  them 
afterwards;  or  the  clerk  would  get  him  to  bring 
up  the  goods;  or  the  cook  would  set  him  to  knead 
the  bread  and  clean  the  saucepans.  Then  he  was 
sent  to  town  on  various  errands,  to  bring  the 
daughter  home  from  school,  or  to  get  some  olive 
oil  for  the  old  mother.  "  Why  the  devil  have 
you  been  so  long?  "  first  one,  then  another,  would 
say  to  him.  Why  should  they  go?  Alyosha  can 
go.  "  Alyosha  !  Alyosha  !  "  And  Alyosha  ran 
here  and  there.  He  breakfasted  in  snatches  while 
he  was  working,  and  rarely  managed  to  get  his 
dinner  at  the  proper  hour.  The  cook  used  to  scold 
him  for  being  late,  but  she  was  sorry  for  him  all 
the  same,  and  would  keep  something  hot  for  his 
dinner  and  supper. 

At  holiday  times  there  was  more  work  than  ever, 
but  Alyosha  liked  holidays  because  everybody  gave 
him  a  tip.  Not  much  certainly,  but  it  would 
amount  up  to  about  sixty  kopeks  [is  2d] — his 
very  own  money.  For  Alyosha  never  set  eyes  on 
his  wages.  His  father  used  to  come  and  take  them 
from  the  merchant,  and  only  scold  Alyosha  for 
wearing  out  his  boots. 

When  he  had  saved  up  two  roubles  [4s],  by  the 


ALYOSHA  THE  POT  209 

advice  of  the  cook  he  bought  himself  a  red  knitted 
jacket,  and  was  so  happy  when  he  put  it  on,  that 
he  couldn't  close  his  mouth  for  joy.  Alyosha  was 
not  talkative;  when  he  spoke  at  all,  he  spoke 
abruptly,  with  his  head  turned  away.  When  told 
to  do  anything,  or  asked  if  he  could  do  it,  he  would 
say  yes  without  the  smallest  hesitation,  and  set  to 
work  at  once. 

Alyosha  did  not  know  any  prayer;  and  had  for- 
gotten what  his  mother  had  taught  him.  But  he 
prayed  just  the  same,  every  morning  and  every 
evening,  prayed  with  his  hands,  crossing  himself. 

He  lived  like  this  for  about  a  year  and  a  half, 
and  towards  the  end  of  the  second  year  a  most 
startling  thing  happened  to  him.  He  discovered 
one  day,  to  his  great  surprise,  that,  in  addition  to 
the  relation  of  usefulness  existing  between  people, 
there  was  also  another,  a  peculiar  relation  of  quite 
a  different  character.  Instead  of  a  man  being 
wanted  to  clean  boots,  and  go  on  errands  and  har- 
ness horses,  he  is  not  wanted  to  be  of  any  service 
at  all,  but  another  human  being  wants  to  serve  him 
and  pet  him.  Suddenly  Alyosha  felt  he  was  such 
a  man. 

He  made  this  discovery  through  the  cook  Us- 
tinia.  She  was  young,  had  no  parents,  and  worked 
as  hard  as  Alyosha.  He  felt  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  that  he  —  not  his  services,  but  he  himself 


210  ALYOSHA  THE  POT 

—  was  necessary  to  another  human  being.  When 
his  mother  used  to  be  sorry  for  him,  he  had  taken 
no  notice  of  her.  It  had  seemed  to  him  quite 
natural,  as  though  he  were  feeling  sorry  for  him- 
self. But  here  was  Ustinia,  a  perfect  stranger, 
and  sorry  for  him.  She  would  save  him  some  hot 
porridge,  and  sit  watching  him,  her  chin  propped 
on  her  bare  arm,  with  the  sleeve  rolled  up,  while  he 
was  eating  it.  When  he  looked  at  her  she  would 
begin  to  laugh,  and  he  would  laugh  too. 

This  was  such  a  new,  strange  thing  to  him  that 
it  frightened  Alyosha.  He  feared  that  it  might 
interfere  with  his  work.  But  he  was  pleased,  nev- 
ertheless, and  when  he  glanced  at  the  trousers  that 
Ustinia  had  mended  for  him,  he  would  shake 
his  head  and  smile.  He  would  often  think  of  her 
while  at  work,  or  when  running  on  errands.  "  A 
fine  girl,  Ustinia  !  "  he  sometimes  exclaimed. 

Ustinia  used  to  help  him  whenever  she  could, 
and  he  helped  her.  She  told  him  all  about  her 
life;  how  she  had  lost  her  parents;  how  her  aunt 
had  taken  her  in  and  found  a  place  for  her  in  the 
town  ;  how  the  merchant's  son  had  tried  to  take  lib- 
erties with  her,  and  how  she  had  rebuffed  him. 
She  liked  to  talk,  and  Alyosha  liked  to  listen  to  her. 
He  had. heard  that  peasants  who  came  up  to  work 
in  the  towns  frequently  got  married  to  servant 
girls.     On  one  occasion  she  asked  him  if  his  par- 


ALYOSHA  THE  POT  211 

ents  intended  marrying  him  soon.  He  said  that 
he  did  not  know;  that  he  did  not  want  to  marry 
any  of  the  village  girls. 

"  Have  you  taken  a  fancy  to  some  one,  then?  " 

"  I  would  marry  you,  if  you'd  be  willing." 

"Get  along  with  you,  Alyosha  the  Pot;  but 
you've  found  your  tongue,  haven't  you?  "  she  ex- 
claimed, slapping  him  on  the  back  with  a  towel  she 
held  in  her  hand.     "  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  " 

At  Shrovetide  Alyosha's  father  came  to  town  for 
his  wages.  It  had  come  to  the  ears  of  the  mer- 
chant's wife  that  Alyosha  wanted  to  marry  Ustinia, 
and  she  disapproved  of  it.  "  What  will  be  the 
use  of  her  with  a  baby?"  she  thought,  and  in- 
formed her  husband. 

The  merchant  gave  the  old  man  Alyosha's 
wages. 

"  How  is  my  lad  getting  on?  "  he  asked.  "  I 
told  you  he  was  willing." 

"  That's  all  right,  as  far  as  it  goes,  but  he's 
taken  some  sort  of  nonsense  into  his  head.  He 
wants  to  marry  our  cook.  Now  I  don't  approve 
of  married  servants.  We  won't  have  them  in  the 
house." 

"  Well,  now,  who  would  have  thought  the  fool 
would  think  of  such  a  thing?"  the  old  man  ex- 
claimed. "  But  don't  you  worry.  I'll  soon  settle 
that." 


2i2  ALYOSHA  THE  POT 

He  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  sat  down  at 
the  table  waiting  for  his  son.  Alyosha  was  out 
on  an  errand,  and  came  back  breathless. 

"I  thought  you  had  some  sense  in  you;  but 
what's  this  you've  taken  into  your  head?"  his 
father  began. 

"I?     Nothing." 

"How,  nothing?  They  tell  me  you  want  to 
get  married.  You  shall  get  married  when  the  time 
comes.  I'll  find  you  a  decent  wife,  not  some  town 
hussy." 

His  father  talked  and  talked,  while  Alyosha 
stood  still  and  sighed.  When  his  father  had  quite 
finished,  Alyosha  smiled. 

"  All  right.      I'll  drop  it." 

"  Now  that's  what  I  call  sense." 

When  he  was  left  alone  with  Ustinia  he  told  her 
what  his  father  had  said.  (She  had  listened  at 
the  door.) 

"  It's  no  good ;  it  can't  come  off.  Did  you  hear  ? 
He   was   angry  —  won't   have    it   at   any   price." 

Ustinia  cried  into  her  apron. 

Alyosha  shook  his  head. 

"What's  to  be  done?  We  must  do  as  we're 
told." 

"  Well,  are  you  going  to  give  up  that  nonsense, 
as  your  father  told  you?"  his  mistress  asked,  as 
he  was  putting  up  the  shutters  in  the  evening. 


^^j 

*^ 

^fli^ 

•  (1 

BS 

IP 

1  x 

&&i 

i 

m     RBvH 

f] 

wt&d 

/ 

Russian  Peasant. 


ALYOSHA  THE  POT  213 

"To  be  sure  we  are,"  Alyosha  replied  with  a 
smile,  and  then  burst  into  tears. 


From  that  day  Alyosha  went  about  his  work  as 
usual,  and  no  longer  talked  to  Ustinia  about  their 
getting  married.  One  day  in  Lent  the  clerk  told 
him  to  clear  the  snow  from  the  roof.  Alyosha 
climbed  on  to  the  roof  and  swept  away  all  the 
snow;  and,  while  he  was  still  raking  out  some 
frozen  lumps  from  the  gutter,  his  foot  slipped  and 
he  fell  over.  Unfortunately  he  did  not  fall  on  the 
snow,  but  on  a  piece  of  iron  over  the  door.  Us- 
tinia came  running  up,  together  with  the  mer- 
chant's daughter. 

"Have  you  hurt  yourself,  Alyosha?" 

"  Ah!  no,  it's  nothing." 

But  he  could  not  raise  himself  when  he  tried 
to,  and  began  to  smile. 

He  was  taken  into  the  lodge.  The  doctor  ar- 
rived, examined  him,  and  asked  where  he  felt  the 
pain. 

"  I  feel  it  all  over,"  he  said.  "  But  it  doesn't 
matter.  I'm  only  afraid  master  will  be  annoyed. 
Father  ought  to  be  told." 

Alyosha  lay  in  bed  for  two  days,  and  on  the  third 
day  they  sent  for  the  priest. 

"  Are  you  really  going  to  die?  "  Ustinia  asked. 

"  Of  course  I  am.     You  can't  go  on  living  for 


2i4  ALYOSHA  THE  POT 

ever.  You  must  go  when  the  time  comes."  Aly- 
osha  spoke  rapidly  as  usual.  "  Thank  you,  Us- 
tina.  You've  been  very  good  to  me.  What  a 
lucky  thing  they  didn't  let  us  marry!  Where 
should  we  have  been  now?  It's  much  better  as  it 
is." 

When  the  priest  came,  he  prayed  with  his  hands 
and  with  his  heart.  "  As  it  is  good  here  when  you 
obey  and  do  no  harm  to  others,  so  it  will  be  there," 
was  the  thought  within  it. 

He  spoke  very  little;  he  only  said  he  was  thirsty, 
and  he  seemed  full  of  wonder  at  something. 

He  lay  in  wonderment,  then  stretched  himself, 
and  died. 


MY    DREAM 


MY    DREAM 

"  As  a  daughter  she  no  longer  exists  for  me. 
Can't  you  understand?  She  simply  doesn't  ex- 
ist. Still,  I  cannot  possibly  leave  her  to  the  char- 
ity of  strangers.  I  will  arrange  things  so  that 
she  can  live  as  she  pleases,  but  I  do  not  wish  to 
hear  of  her.  Who  would  ever  have  thought 
.     .     .     the  horror  of  it,  the  horror  of  it." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  and 
raised  his  eyes.  These  words  were  spoken  by 
Prince  Michael  Ivanovich  to  his  brother  Peter, 
who  was  governor  of  a  province  in  Central  Rus- 
sia. Prince  Peter  was  a  man  of  fifty,  Michael's 
junior  by  ten  years. 

On  discovering  that  his  daughter,  who  had  left 
his  house  a  year  before,  had  settled  here  with  her 
child,  the  elder  brother  had  come  from  St.  Peters- 
burg to  the  provincial  town,  where  the  above  con- 
versation took  place. 

Prince  Michael  Ivanovich  was  a  tall,  handsome, 
white-haired,  fresh  coloured  man,  proud  and  at- 
tractive in  appearance  and  bearing.  His  family 
consisted  of  a  vulgar,  irritable  wife,  who  wran- 
gled with  him  continually  over  every  petty  detail, 
217 


2i8  MY  DREAM 

a  son,  a  ne'er-do-well,  spendthrift  and  roue  — 
yet  a  "  gentleman,"  according  to  his  father's  code, 
two  daughters,  of  whom  the  elder  had  married 
well,  and  was  living  in  St.  Petersburg;  and  the 
younger,  Lisa  —  his  favourite,  who  had  disap- 
peared from  home  a  year  before.  Only  a  short 
while  ago  he  had  found  her  with  her  child  in  this 
provincial  town. 

Prince  Peter  wanted  to  ask  his  brother  how, 
and  under  what  circumstances,  Lisa  had  left 
home,  and  who  could  possibly  be  the  father  of  her 
child.  But  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  in- 
quire. 

That  very  morning,  when  his  wife  had  at- 
tempted to  condole  with  her  brother-in-law,  Prince 
Peter  had  observed  a  look  of  pain  on  his  brother's 
face.  The  look  had  at  once  been  masked  by  an 
expression  of  unapproachable  pride,  and  he  had 
begun  to  question  her  about  their  flat,  and  the 
price  she  paid.  At  luncheon,  before  the  family 
and  guests,  he  had  been  witty  and  sarcastic  as 
usual.  Towards  every  one,  excepting  the  chil- 
dren, whom  he  treated  with  almost  reverent  ten- 
derness, he  adopted  an  attitude  of  distant  hauteur. 
And  yet  it  was  so  natural  to  him  that  every  one 
somehow  acknowledged  his  right  to  be  haughty. 

In  the  evening  his  brother  arranged  a  game  of 
whist.     When  he  retired  to  the  room  which  had 


MY  DREAM  219 

been  made  ready  lor  him,  and  was  just  beginning 
to  take  out  his  artificial  teeth,  some  one  tapped 
lightly  on  the  door  with  two  fingers. 

"Who  is  that?" 

"  Cest  moi,  Michael." 

Prince  Michael  Ivanovich  recognised  the  voice 
of  his  sister-in-law,  frowned,  replaced  his  teeth, 
and  said  to  himself,  "What  does  she  want?" 
Aloud  he  said,  "  Entrez." 

His  sister-in-law  was  a  quiet,  gentle  creature, 
who  bowed  in  submission  to  her  husband's  will. 
But  to  many  she  seemed  a  crank,  and  some  did 
not  hesitate  to  call  her  a  fool.  She  was  pretty, 
but  her  hair  was  always  carelessly  dressed,  and  she 
herself  was  untidy  and  absent-minded.  She  had, 
also,  the  strangest,  most  unaristocratic  ideas,  by  no 
means  fitting  in  the  wife  of  a  high  official.  These 
ideas  she  would  express  most  unexpectedly,  to 
everybody's  astonishment,  her  husband's  no  less 
than  her  friends'. 

"'  Fous  pouvez  me  renvoyer,  mais  je  tie  m  en 
irai  pas,  je  vous  le  dis  d'avance,"  she  began,  in  her 
characteristic,  indifferent  way. 

"  Dieu  preserve,"  answered  her  brother-in-law, 
with  his  usual  somewhat  exaggerated  politeness, 
and  brought  forward  a  chair  for  her. 

"  Ca  ne  vous  derange  pas?"  she  asked,  taking 
out  a  cigarette.      "  I'm  not  going  to  say  anything 


220  MY  DREAM 

unpleasant,  Michael.  I  only  wanted  to  say  some- 
thing about  Lisochka." 

Michael  Ivanovich  sighed  —  the  word  pained 
him;  but  mastering  himself  at  once,  he  answered 
with  a  tired  smile.  "  Our  conversation  can  only 
be  on  one  subject,  and  that  is  the  subject  you  wish 
to  discuss."  He  spoke  without  looking  at  her, 
and  avoided  even  naming  the  subject.  But  his 
plump,  pretty  little  sister-in-law  was  unabashed. 
She  continued  to  regard  him  with  the  same  gentle, 
imploring  look  in  her  blue  eyes,  sighing  even  more 
deeply. 

"  Michael,  mon  bon  ami,  have  pity  on  her. 
She  is  only  human." 

"  I  never  doubted  that,"  said  Michael  Ivano- 
vich with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  She  is  your  daughter." 

"  She  was  —  but  my  dear  Aline,  why  talk  about 
this?" 

"  Michael,  dear,  won't  you  see  her?  I  only 
wanted  to  say,  that  the  one  who  is  to  blame  —  " 

Prince  Michael  Ivanovich  flushed;  his  face  be- 
came cruel. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  let  us  stop.  I  have  suf- 
fered enough.  I  have  now  but  one  desire,  and 
that  is  to  put  her  in  such  a  position  that  she  will 
be  independent  of  others,  and  that  she  shall  have 
no  further  need  of  communicating  with  me.     Then 


MY  DREAM  221 

she  can  live  her  own  life,  and  my  family  and  I 
need  know  nothing  more  about  her.  That  is  all 
I  can  do." 

11  Michael,  you  say  nothing  but  '  I  '  1  She,  too, 
is  '  I.'  " 

"  No  doubt;  but,  dear  Aline,  please  let  us  drop 
the  matter.     I  feel  it  too  deeply." 

Alexandra  Drnitrievna  remained  silent  for  a 
few  moments,  shaking  her  head.  "  And  Masha, 
your  wife,  thinks  as  you  do?  " 

"  Yes,  quite." 

Alexandra  Drnitrievna  made  an  inarticulate 
sound. 

"  Brisons  la  dessus  et  bonne  unit,"  said  he. 
But  she  did  not  go.  She  stood  silent  a  moment. 
Then,  — 

"  Peter  tells  me  you  intend  to  leave  the  money 
with  the  woman  where  she  lives.  Have  you  the 
address?  " 

"  I  have." 

"Don't  leave  it  with  the  woman,  Michael! 
Go  yourself.  Just  see  how  she  lives.  If  you 
don't  want  to  see  her,  you  need  not.  He  isn't 
there;  there  is  no  one  there." 

Michael  Ivanovich  shuddered  violently. 

"Why  do  you  torture  me  so?  It's  a  sin 
against  hospitality!  " 

Alexandra    Drnitrievna    rose,    and    almost    in 


222  MY  DREAM 

tears,  being  touched  by  her  own  pleading,  said, 
"  She  is  so  miserable,  but  she  is  such  a  dear." 

He  got  up,  and  stood  waiting  for  her  to  finish. 
She  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Michael,  you  do  wrong,"  said  she,  and  left 
him. 

For  a  long  while  after  she  had  gone  Michael 
Ivanovich  walked  to  and  fro  on  the  square  of 
carpet.  He  frowned  and  shivered,  and  ex- 
claimed, "  Oh,  oh!  "  And  then  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice  frightened  him,  and  he  was  silent. 

His  wounded  pride  tortured  him.  His  daugh- 
ter—  his  —  brought  up  in  the  house  of  her 
mother,  the  famous  Avdotia  Borisovna,  whom  the 
Empress  honoured  with  her  visits,  and  acquaint- 
ance with  whom  was  an  honour  for  all  the  world! 
His  daughter  — ;  and  he  had  lived  his  life  as  a 
knight  of  old,  knowing  neither  fear  nor  blame. 
The  fact  that  he  had  a  natural  son  born  of  a 
Frenchwoman,  whom  he  had  settled  abroad,  did 
not  lower  his  own  self-esteem.  And  now  this 
daughter,  for  whom  he  had  not  only  done  every- 
thing that  a  father  could  and  should  do;  this 
daughter  to  whom  he  had  given  a  splendid  educa- 
tion and  every  opportunity  to  make  a  match  in  the 
best  Russian  society  —  this  daughter  to  whom  he 
had  not  only  given  all  that  a  girl  could  desire,  but 
whom  he  had  really  loved;  whom  he  had  admired, 


MY  DREAM  223 

been  proud  of  —  this  daughter  had  repaid  him 
with  such  disgrace,  that  he  was  ashamed  and  could 
not  face  the  eyes  of  men ! 

He  recalled  the  time  when  she  was  not  merely 
his  child,  and  a  member  of  his  family,  but  his 
darling,  his  joy  and  his  pride.  He  saw  her  again, 
a  little  thing  of  eight  or  nine,  bright,  intelligent, 
lively,  impetuous,  graceful,  with  brilliant  black 
eyes  and  flowing  auburn  hair.  He  remembered 
how  she  used  to  jump  up  on  his  knees  and  hug 
him,  and  tickle  his  neck;  and  how  she  would  laugh, 
regardless  of  his  protests,  and  continue  to  tickle 
him,  and  kiss  his  lips,  his  eyes,  and  his  cheeks. 
He  was  naturally  opposed  to  all  demonstration, 
but  this  impetuous  love  moved  him,  and  he  often 
submitted  to  her  petting.  He  remembered  also 
how  sweet  it  was  to  caress  her.  To  remember 
all  this,  when  that  sweet  child  had  become  what 
she  now  was,  a  creature  of  whom  he  cculd  not 
think  without  loathing. 

He  also  recalled  the  time  when  she  was  growing 
into  womanhood,  and  the  curious  feeling  of  fear 
and  anger  that  he  experienced  when  he  became 
aware  that  men  regarded  her  as  a  woman.  He 
thought  of  his  jealous  love  when  she  came  coquet- 
tishly  to  him  dressed  for  a  ball,  and  knowing  that 
she  was  pretty.  He  dreaded  the  passionate 
glances  which  fell  upon  her,  that  she  not  only  did 


224  MY  DREAM 

not  understand  but  rejoiced  in.  "  Yes,"  thought 
he,  "that  superstition  of  woman's  purity!  Quite 
the  contrary,  they  do  not  know  shame  —  they  lack 
this  sense."  He  remembered  how,  quite  inexpli- 
cably to  him,  she  had  refused  two  very  good  suit- 
ors. She  had  become  more  and  more  fascinated 
by  her  own  success  in  the  round  of  gaieties  she 
lived  in. 

But  this  success  could  not  last  long.  A  year 
passed,  then  two,  then  three.  She  was  a  familiar 
figure,  beautiful  —  but  her  first  youth  had  passed, 
and  she  had  become  somehow  part  of  the  ball- 
room furniture.  Michael  Ivanovich  remembered 
how  he  had  realised  that  she  was  on  the  road  to 
spinsterhood,  and  desired  but  one  thing  for  her. 
He  must  get  her  married  off  as  quickly  as  possible, 
perhaps  not  quite  so  well  as  might  have  been  ar- 
ranged earlier,  but  still  a  respectable  match. 

But  it  seemed  to  him  she  had  behaved  with  a 
pride  that  bordered  on  insolence.  Remembering 
this,  his  anger  rose  more  and  more  fiercely  against 
her.  To  think  of  her  refusing  so  many  decent 
men,  only  to  end  in  this  disgrace.  "  Oh,  oh !  "  he 
groaned  again. 

Then  stopping,  he  lit  a  cigarette,  and  tried  to 
think  of  other  things.  He  would  send  her  money, 
without  ever  letting  her  see  him.  But  memories 
came   again.     He   remembered  —  it   was   not   so 


MY  DREAM  225 

very  long  ago,  for  she  was  more  than  twenty  then 
—  her  beginning  a  flirtation  with  a  boy  of  four- 
teen, a  cadet  of  the  Corps  of  Pages  who  had  been 
staying  with  them  in  the  country.  She  had  driven 
the  boy  half  crazy;  he  had  wept  in  his  distraction. 
Then  how  she  had  rebuked  her  father  severely, 
coldly,  and  even  rudely,  when,  to  put  an  end  to 
this  stupid  affair,  he  had  sent  the  boy  away.  She 
seemed  somehow  to  consider  herself  insulted. 
Since  then  father  and  daughter  had  drifted  into 
undisguised  hostility. 

"  I  was  right,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  She  is  a 
wicked  and  shameless  woman." 

And  then,  as  a  last  ghastly  memory,  there  was 
the  letter  from  Moscow,  in  which  she  wrote  that 
she  could  not  return  home ;  that  she  was  a  miser- 
able, abandoned  woman,  asking  only  to  be  for- 
given and  forgotten.  Then  the  horrid  recollec- 
tion of  the  scene  with  his  wife  came  to  him;  their 
surmises  and  their  suspicions,  which  became  a  cer- 
tainty. The  calamity  had  happened  in  Finland, 
where  they  had  let  her  visit  her  aunt;  and  the 
culprit  was  an  insignificant  Swede,  a  student,  an 
empty-headed,  worthless  creature  —  and  married. 

All  this  came  back  to  him  now  as  he  paced 
backwards  and  forwards  on  the  bedroom  carpet, 
recollecting  his  former  love  for  her,  his  pride  in 
her.     He  recoiled  with  terror  before  the  incom- 


226  MY  DREAM 

prehensible  fact  of  her  downfall,  and  he  hated  her 
for  the  agony  she  was  causing  him.  He  remem- 
bered the  conversation  with  his  sister-in-law,  and 
tried  to  imagine  how  he  might  forgive  her.  But 
as  soon  as  the  thought  of  "  him  "  arose,  there 
surged  up  in  his  heart  horror,  disgust,  and  wounded 
pride.  He  groaned  aloud,  and  tried  to  think  of 
something  else. 

"No,  it  is  impossible;  I  will  hand  over  the 
money  to  Peter  to  give  her  monthly.  And  as  for 
me,  I  have  no  longer  a  daughter." 

And  again  a  curious  feeling  overpowered  him: 
a  mixture  of  self-pity  at  the  recollection  of  his 
love  for  her,  and  of  fury  against  her  for  causing 


II 

During  the  last  year  Lisa  had  without  doubt 
lived  through  more  than  in  all  the  preceding 
twenty-five.  Suddenly  she  had  realised  the  empti- 
ness of  her  whole  life.  It  rose  before  her,  base 
and  sordid  —  this  life  at  home  and  among  the  rich 
set  in  St.  Petersburg — this  animal  existence  that 
never  sounded  the  depths,  but  only  touched  the 
shallows  of  life. 

It  was  well  enough  for  a  year  or  two,  or  per- 
haps even  three.     But  when  it  went  on  for  seven 


MY  DREAM  227 

or  eight  years,  with  its  parties,  balls,  concerts, 
and  suppers;  with  its  costumes  and  coiffures  to 
display  the  charms  of  the  body;  with  its  adorers 
old  and  young,  all  alike  seemingly  possessed  of 
some  unaccountable  right  to  have  everything,  to 
laugh  at  everything;  and  with  its  summer  months 
spent  in  the  same  way,  everything  yielding  but  a 
superficial  pleasure,  even  music  and  reading  merely 
touching  upon  life's  problems,  but  never  solving 
them  —  all  this  holding  out  no  promise  of  change, 
and  losing  its  charm  more  and  more  —  she  began 
to  despair.  She  had  desperate  moods  when  she 
longed  to  die. 

Her  friends  directed  her  thoughts  to  charity. 
On  the  one  hand,  she  saw  poverty  which  was  real 
and  repulsive,  and  a  sham  poverty  even  more  re- 
pulsive and  pitiable;  on  the  other,  she  saw  the  ter- 
rible indifference  of  the  lady  patronesses  who  came 
in  carriages  and  gowns  worth  thousands.  Life 
became  to  her  more  and  more  unbearable.  She 
yearned  for  something  real,  for  life  itself  —  not 
this  playing  at  living,  not  this  skimming  life  of  its 
cream.  Of  real  life  there  was  none.  The  best 
of  her  memories  was  her  love  for  the  little  cadet 
Koko.  That  had  been  a  good,  honest,  straight- 
forward impulse,  and  now  there  was  nothing  like 
it.  There  could  not  be.  She  grew  more  and 
more   depressed,   and  in   this   gloomy   mood   she 


228  MY  DREAM 

went  to  visit  an  aunt  in  Finland.  The  fresh 
scenery  and  surroundings,  the  people  strangely 
different  to  her  own,  appealed  to  her  at  any  rate 
as  a  new  experience. 

How  and  when  it  all  began  she  could  not 
clearly  remember.  Her  aunt  had  another  guest, 
a  Swede.  He  talked  of  his  work,  his  people,  the 
latest  Swedish  novel.  Somehow,  she  herself  did 
not  know  how  that  terrible  fascination  of  glances 
and  smiles  began,  the  meaning  of  which  cannot  be 
put  into  words. 

These  smiles  and  glances  seemed  to  reveal  to 
each,  not  only  the  soul  of  the  other,  but  some 
vital  and  universal  mystery.  Every  word  they 
spoke  was  invested  by  these  smiles  with  a  pro- 
found and  wonderful  significance.  Music,  too, 
when  they  were  listening  together,  or  when  they 
sang  duets,  became  full  of  the  same  deep  meaning. 
So,  also,  the  words  in  the  books  they  read  aloud. 
Sometimes  they  would  argue,  but  the  moment 
their  eyes  met,  or  a  smile  flashed  between  them, 
the  discussion  remained  far  behind.  They  soared 
beyond  it  to  some  higher  plane  consecrated  to 
themselves. 

How  it  had  come  about,  how  and  when  the 
devil,  who  had  seized  hold  of  them  both,  first 
appeared  behind  these  smiles  and  glances,  she 
could  not  say.      But,  when  terror  first  seized  her, 


MY  DREAM  229 

the  invisible  threads  that  bound  them  were  already 
so  interwoven  that  she  had  no  power  to  tear  her- 
self free.  She  could  only  count  on  him  and  on 
his  honour.  She  hoped  that  he  would  not  make 
use  of  his  power;  yet  all  the  while  she  vaguely  de- 
sired it. 

Her  weakness  was  the  greater,  because  she  had 
nothing  to  support  her  in  the  struggle.  She  was 
weary  of  society  life  and  she  had  no  affection  for 
her  mother.  Her  father,  so  she  thought,  had 
cast  her  away  from  him,  and  she  longed  passion- 
ately to  live  and  to  have  done  with  play.  Love, 
the  perfect  love  of  a  woman  for  a  man,  held  the 
promise  of  life  for  her.  Her  strong,  passionate 
nature,  too,  was  dragging  her  thither.  In  the  tall, 
strong  figure  of  this  man,  with  his  fair  hair  and 
light  upturned  moustache,  under  which  shone  a 
smile  attractive  and  compelling,  she  saw  the  prom- 
ise of  that  life  for  which  she  longed.  And  then 
the  smiles  and  glances,  the  hope  of  something  so 
incredibly  beautiful,  led,  as  they  were  bound  to 
lead,  to  that  which  she  feared  but  unconsciously 
awaited. 

Suddenly  all  that  was  beautiful,  joyous,  spir- 
itual, and  full  of  promise  for  the  future,  became 
animal  and  sordid,  sad  and  despairing. 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  and  tried  to  smile, 
pretending  that  she   feared  nothing,   that  every- 


230  MY  DREAM 

thing  was  as  It  should  be;  but  deep  down  in  her 
soul  she  knew  it  was  all  over.  She  understood 
that  she  had  not  found  in  him  what  she  had 
sought;  that  which  she  had  once  known  in  herself 
and  in  Koko.  She  told  him  that  he  must  write  to 
her  father  asking  her  hand  in  marriage.  This  he 
promised  to  do;  but  when  she  met  him  next  he  said 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  write  just  then.  She 
saw  something  vague  and  furtive  in  his  eyes,  and 
her  distrust  of  him  grew.  The  following  day  he 
wrote  to  her,  telling  her  that  he  was  already  mar- 
ried, though  his  wife  had  left  him  long  since; 
that  he  knew  she  would  despise  him  for  the  wrong 
he  had  done  her,  and  implored  her  forgiveness. 
She  made  him  come  to  see  her.  She  said  she 
loved  him;  that  she  felt  herself  bound  to  him  for 
ever  whether  he  was  married  or  not,  and  would 
never  leave  him.  The  next  time  they  met  he  told 
her  that  he  and  his  parents  were  so  poor  that  he 
could  only  offer  her  the  meanest  existence.  She 
answered  that  she  needed  nothing,  and  was  ready 
to  go  with  him  at  once  wherever  he  wished.  He 
endeavoured  to  dissuade  her,  advising  her  to  wait; 
and  so  she  waited.  But  to  live  on  with  this  se- 
cret, with  occasional  meetings,  and  merely  cor- 
responding with  him,  all  hidden  from  her  family, 
was  agonising,  and  she  insisted  again  that  he  must 
take  her  away.     At  first,  when  she  returned  to  St. 


MY  DREAM  231 

Petersburg,  he  wrote  promising  to  come,  and  then 
letters  ceased  and  she  knew  no  more  of  him. 

She  tried  to  lead  her  old  life,  but  it  was  im- 
possible. She  fell  ill,  and  the  efforts  of  the  doc- 
tors were  unavailing;  in  her  hopelessness  she 
resolved  to  kill  herself.  But  how  was  she  to  do 
this,  so  that  her  death  might  seem  natural?  She 
really  desired  to  take  her  life,  and  imagined  that 
she  had  irrevocably  decided  on  the  step.  So,  ob- 
taining some  poison,  she  poured  it  into  a  glass, 
and  in  another  instant  would  have  drunk  it,  had 
not  her  sister's  little  son  of  five  at  that  very  mo- 
ment run  in  to  show  her  a  toy  his  grandmother  had 
given  him.  She  caressed  the  child,  and,  suddenly 
stopping  short,  burst  into  tears. 

The  thought  overpowered  her  that  she,  too, 
might  have  been  a  mother  had  he  not  been  mar- 
ried, and  this  vision  of  motherhood  made  her  look 
into  her  own  soul  for  the  first  time.  She  began  to 
think  not  of  what  others  would  say  of  her,  but  of 
her  own  life.  To  kill  oneself  because  of  what 
the  world  might  say  was  easy;  but  the  moment  she 
saw  her  own  life  dissociated  from  the  world,  to 
take  that  life  was  out  of  the  question.  She  threw 
away  the  poison,  and  ceased  to  think  of  sui- 
cide. 

Then  her  life  within  began.  It  was  real  life, 
and  despite  the  torture  of  it,  had  the  possibility 


232  MY  DREAM 

been  given  her,  she  would  not  have  turned  back 
from  it.  She  began  to  pray,  but  there  was  no 
comfort  in  prayer;  and  her  suffering  was  less  for 
herself  than  for  her  father,  whose  grief  she  fore- 
saw and  understood. 

Thus  months  dragged  along,  and  then  some- 
thing happened  which  entirely  transformed  her 
life.  One  day,  when  she  was  at  work  upon  a 
quilt,  she  suddenly  experienced  a  strange  sensa- 
tion. No  —  it  seemed  impossible.  Motionless 
she  sat  with  her  work  in  hand.  Was  it  possi- 
ble that  this  was  //.  Forgetting  everything,  his 
baseness  and  deceit,  her  mother's  querulousness, 
and  her  father's  sorrow,  she  smiled.  She  shud- 
dered at  the  recollection  that  she  was  on  the  point 
of  killing  it,  together  with  herself. 

She  now  directed  all  her  thoughts  to  getting 
away  —  somewhere  where  she  could  bear  her 
child  —  and  become  a  miserable,  pitiful  mother, 
but  a  mother  withal.  Somehow  she  planned  and 
arranged  it  all,  leaving  her  home  and  settling  in  a 
distant  provincial  town,  where  no  one  could  find 
her,  and  where  she  thought  she  would  be  far  from 
her  people.  But,  unfortunately,  her  father's 
brother  received  an  appointment  there,  a  thing  she 
could  not  possibly  foresee.  For  four  months  she 
had  been  living  in  the  house  of  a  midwife  —  one 
Maria  Ivanovna;  and,  on  learning  that  her  uncle 


MY  DREAM  233 

had  come  to  the  town,  she  was  preparing  to  fly  to 
a  still  remoter  hiding-place. 


Ill 

Michael  Ivanovich  awoke  early  next  morning. 
He  entered  his  brother's  study,  and  handed  him 
the  cheque,  filled  in  for  a  sum  which  he  asked  him 
to  pay  in  monthly  instalments  to  his  daughter. 
He  inquired  when  the  express  left  for  St.  Peters- 
burg. The  train  left  at  seven  in  the  evening, 
giving  him  time  for  an  early  dinner  before  leav- 
ing. He  breakfasted  with  his  sister-in-law,  who 
refrained  from  mentioning  the  subject  which  was 
so  painful  to  him,  but  only  looked  at  him  timidly; 
and  after  breakfast  he  went  out  for  his  regular 
morning  walk. 

Alexandra  Dmitrievna  followed  him  into  the 
hall. 

"Go  into  the  public  gardens,  Michael  —  it  is 
very  charming  there,  and  quite  near  to  Every- 
thing," said  she,  meeting  his  sombre  looks  with  a 
pathetic  glance. 

Michael  Ivanovich  followed  her  advice  and 
went  to  the  public  gardens,  which  were  so  near  to 
Everything,  and  meditated  with  annoyance  on  the 
stupidity,  the  obstinacy,  and  heartlessness  of 
women. 


234  MY  DREAM 

"  She  is  not  in  the  very  least  sorry  for  me,"  he 
thought  of  his  sister-in-law.  "  She  cannot  even 
understand  my  sorrow.  And  what  of  her?" 
He  was  thinking  of  his  daughter.  "  She  knows 
what  all  this  means  to  me  —  the  torture.  What 
a  blow  in  one's  old  age!  My  days  will  be  short- 
ened by  it!  But  I'd  rather  have  it  over  than 
endure  this  agony.  And  all  that  '  pour  les  beaux 
yeux  d'un  chenapan'  —  oh!"  he  moaned;  and  a 
wave  of  hatred  and  fury  arose  in  him  as  he 
thought  of  what  would  be  said  in  the  town  when 
every  one  knew.  (And  no  doubt  every  one  knew 
already.)  Such  a  feeling  of  rage  possessed  him 
that  he  would  have  liked  to  beat  it  into  her  head, 
and  make  her  understand  what  she  had  done. 
These  women  never  understand.  "  It  is  quite 
near  Everything,"  suddenly  came  to  his  mind,  and 
getting  out  his  notebook,  he  found  her  address. 
Vera  Ivanovna  Silvestrova,  Kukonskaya  Street, 
Abromov's  house.  She  was  living  under  this 
name.     He  left  the  gardens  and  called  a  cab. 

"Whom  do  you  wish  to  see,  sir?"  asked  the 
midwife,  Maria  Ivanovna,  when  he  stepped  on 
the  narrow  landing  of  the  steep,  stuffy  staircase. 

"Does  Madame  Silvestrova  live  here?" 

"Vera  Ivanovna?  Yes;  please  come  in.  She 
has  gone  out;  she's  gone  to  the  shop  round  the 
corner.      But  she'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 


MY  DREAM  235 

Michael  Ivanovich  followed  the  stout  figure  of 
Maria  Ivanovna  into  a  tiny  parlour,  and  from  the 
next  room  came  the  screams  of  a  baby,  sounding 
cross  and  peevish,  which  filled  him  with  disgust. 
They  cut  him  like  a  knife. 

Maria  Ivanovna  apologised,  and  went  into  the 
room,  and  he  could  hear  her  soothing  the  child. 
The  child  became  quiet,  and  she  returned. 

"That  is  her  baby;  she'll  be  back  in  a  minute. 
You  are  a  friend  of  hers,  I  suppose?  " 

"Yes  —  a  friend  —  but  I  think  I  had  better 
come  back  later  on,"  said  Michael  Ivanovich,  pre- 
paring to  go.  It  was  too  unbearable,  this  prep- 
aration to  meet  her,  and  any  explanation  seemed 
impossible. 

He  had  just  turned  to  leave,  when  he  heard 
quick,  light  steps  on  the  stairs,  and  he  recognised 
Lisa's  voice. 

"  Maria  Ivanovna  —  has  he  been  crying  while 
I  ve  been  gone  —  I  was  —  " 

Then  she  saw  her  father.  The  parcel  she  was 
carrying  fell  from  her  hands. 

"  Father!  "  she  cried,  and  stopped  in  the  door- 
way, white  and  trembling. 

He  remained  motionless,  staring  at  her.  She 
had  grown  so  thin.  Her  eyes  were  larger,  her 
nose  sharper,  her  hands  worn  and  bony.  He 
neither  knew  what  to  do,  nor  what  to  say.     He 


236  MY  DREAM 

forgot  all  his  grief  about  his  dishonour.  He  only 
felt  sorrow,  infinite  sorrow  for  her;  sorrow  for 
her  thinness,  and  for  her  miserable  rough  cloth- 
ing; and  most  of  all,  for  her  pitiful  face  and  im- 
ploring eyes. 

"  Father —  forgive,"  she  said,  moving  towards 
him. 

"Forgive  —  forgive  me,"  he  murmured;  and 
he  began  to  sob  like  a  child,  kissing  her  face  and 
hands,  and  wetting  them  with  his  tears. 

In  his  pity  for  her  he  understood  himself.  And 
when  he  saw  himself  as  he  was,  he  realised  how 
he  had  wronged  her,  how  guilty  he  had  been  in 
his  pride,  in  his  coldness,  even  in  his  anger  towards 
her.  He  was  glad  that  it  was  he  who  was  guilty, 
and  that  he  had  nothing  to  forgive,  but  that  he 
himself  needed  forgiveness.  She  took  him  to  her 
tiny  room,  and  told  him  how  she  lived;  but  she 
did  not  show  him  the  child,  nor  did  she  mention 
the  past,  knowing  how  painful  it  would  be  to  him. 

He  told  her  that  she  must  live  differently. 

"  Yes;  if  I  could  only  live  in  the  country,"  said 
she. 

"  We  will  talk  it  over,"  he  said.  Suddenly 
the  child  began  to  wail  and  to  scream.  She 
opened  her  eyes  very  wide;  and,  not  taking  them 
from  her  father's  face,  remained  hesitating  and 
motionless. 


MY  DREAM  237 

"Well  —  I  suppose  you  must  feed  him,"  said 
Michael  Ivanovich,  and  frowned  with  the  obvious 
effort. 

She  got  up,  and  suddenly  the  wild  idea  seized 
her  to  show  him  whom  she  loved  so  deeply  the 
thing  she  now  loved  best  of  all  in  the  world. 
But  first  she  looked  at  her  father's  face.  Would 
he  be  angry  or  not?  His  face  revealed  no  anger, 
only  suffering. 

"  Yes,  go,  go,"  said  he;  "  God  bless  you.  Yes. 
I'll  come  again  to-morrow,  and  we  will  decide. 
Good-bye,  my  darling — good-bye."  Again  he 
found  it  hard  to  swallow  the  lump  in  his  throat. 

When  Michael  Ivanovich  returned  to  his 
brother's  house,  Alexandra  Dmitrievna  imme- 
diately rushed  to  him. 

"Well?" 

"Well?     Nothing." 

"Have  you  seen?"  she  asked,  guessing  from 
his  expression  that  something  had  happened. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  shortly,  and  began  to  cry. 
"  I'm  getting  old  and  stupid,"  said  he,  mastering 
his  emotion. 

"No;  you  are  growing  wise  —  very  wise." 


THERE   ARE   NO   GUILTY    PEOPLE 


THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

I 

Mine  is  a  strange  and  wonderful  lot!  The 
chances  are  that  there  is  not  a  single  wretched 
beggar  suffering  under  the  luxury  and  oppression 
of  the  rich  who  feels  anything  like  as  keenly  as  I 
do  either  the  injustice,  the  cruelty,  and  the  horror 
of  their  oppression  of  and  contempt  for  the  poor; 
or  the  grinding  humiliation  and  misery  which 
befall  the  great  majority  of  the  workers,  the  real 
producers  of  all  that  makes  life  possible.  I  have 
felt  this  for  a  long  time,  and  as  the  years  have 
passed  by  the  feeling  has  grown  and  grown,  until 
recently  it  reached  its  climax.  Although  I  feel  all 
this  so  vividly,  I  still  live  on  amid  the  depravity 
and  sins  of  rich  society;  and  I  cannot  leave  it, 
because  I  have  neither  the  knowledge  nor  the 
strength  to  do  so.  I  cannot.  I  do  not  know 
how  to  change  my  life  so  that  my  physical  needs 
—  food,  sleep,  clothing,  my  going  to  and  fro  — 
may  be  satisfied  without  a  sense  of  shame  and 
wrongdoing  in  the  position  which  I  fill. 
241 


242     THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

There  was  a  time  when  I  tried  to  change  my 
position,  which  was  not  in  harmony  with  my 
conscience;  but  the  conditions  created  by  the  past, 
by  my  family  and  its  claims  upon  me,  were  so 
complicated  that  they  would  not  let  me  out  of 
their  grasp,  or  rather,  I  did  not  know  how  to  free 
myself.  I  had  not  the  strength.  Now  that  I  am 
over  eighty  and  have  become  feeble,  I  have  given 
up  trying  to  free  myself;  and,  strange  to  say,  as 
my  feebleness  increases  I  realise  more  and  more 
strongly  the  wrongfulness  of  my  position,  and  it 
grows  more  and  more  intolerable  to  me. 

It  has  occurred  to  me  that  I  do  not  occupy  this 
position  for  nothing:  that  Providence  intended 
that  I  should  lay  bare  the  truth  of  my  feelings,  so 
that  I  might  atone  for  all  that  causes  my  suffering, 
and  might  perhaps  open  the  eyes  of  those  —  or  at 
least  of  some  of  those  —  who  are  still  blind  to 
what  I  see  so  clearly,  and  thus  might  lighten  the 
burden  of  that  vast  majority  who,  under  existing 
conditions,  are  subjected  to  bodily  and  spiritual 
suffering  by  those  who  deceive  them  and  also 
deceive  themselves.  Indeed,  it  may  be  that  the 
position  which  I  occupy  gives  me  special  facilities 
for  revealing  the  artificial  and  criminal  relations 
which  exist  between  men  —  for  telling  the  whole 
truth  in  regard  to  that  position  without  confusing 
the  issue  by  attempting  to  vindicate  myself,   and 


THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE      243 

without  rousing  the  envy  of  the  rich  and  feelings 
of  oppression  in  the  hearts  of  the  poor  and  down- 
trodden. I  am  so  placed  that  I  not  only  have  no 
desire  to  vindicate  myself;  but,  on  the  contrary,  I 
find  it  necessary  to  make  an  effort  lest  I  should 
exaggerate  the  wickedness  of  the  great  among 
whom  I  live,  of  whose  society  I  am  ashamed, 
whose  attitude  towards  their  fellow-men  I  detest 
with  my  whole  soul,  though  I  find  it  impossible  to 
separate  my  lot  from  theirs.  But  I  must  also 
avoid  the  error  of  those  democrats  and  others 
who,  in  defending  the  oppressed  and  the  enslaved, 
do  not  see  their  failings  and  mistakes,  and  who  do 
not  make  sufficient  allowance  for  the  difficulties 
created,  the  mistakes  inherited  from  the  past, 
which  in  a  degree  lessens  the  responsibility  of  the 
upper  classes. 

Free  from  desire  for  self-vindication,  free  from 
fear  of  an  emancipated  people,  free  from  that 
envy  and  hatred  which  the  oppressed  feel  for  their 
oppressors,  I  am  in  the  best  possible  position  to 
see  the  truth  and  to  tell  it.  Perhaps  that  is  why 
Providence  placed  me  in  such  a  position.  I  will 
do  my  best  to  turn  it  to  account. 


244      THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

II 

Alexander  Ivanovich  Volgin,  a  bachelor  and  a 
clerk  in  a  Moscow  bank  at  a  salary  of  eight 
thousand  roubles  a  year,  a  man  much  respected  in 
his  own  set,  was  staying  in  a  country-house.  His 
host  was  a  wealthy  landowner,  owning  some 
twenty-five  hundred  acres,  and  had  married  his 
guest's  cousin.  Volgin,  tired  after  an  evening 
spent  in  playing  vint  *  for  small  stakes  with  mem- 
bers of  the  family,  went  to  his  room  and  placed 
his  watch,  silver  cigarette-case,  pocket-book,  big 
leather  purse,  and  pocket-brush  and  comb  on  a 
small  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  then, 
taking  off  his  coat,  waistcoat,  shirt,  trousers,  and 
underclothes,  his  silk  socks  and  English  boots,  put 
on  his  nightshirt  and  dressing-gown.  His  watch 
pointed  to  midnight.  Volgin  smoked  a  cigarette, 
lay  on  his  face  for  about  five  minutes  reviewing 
the  day's  impressions;  then,  blowing  out  his 
candle,  he  turned  over  on  his  side  and  fell  asleep 
about  one  o'clock,  in  spite  of  a  good  deal  of  rest- 
lessness. Awaking  next  morning  at  eight  he  put 
on  his  slippers  and  dressing-gown,  and  rang  the 
bell. 

The    old    butler,    Stephen,    the    father    of    a 

*  A   game  of   cards  similar  to  auction  bridge. 


THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE      245 

family  and  the  grandfather  of  six  grandchildren, 
who  had  served  in  that  house  for  thirty  years, 
entered  the  room  hurriedly,  with  bent  legs,  carry- 
ing in  the  newly  blackened  boots  which  Volgin  had 
taken  off  the  night  before,  a  well-brushed  suit,  and 
a  clean  shirt.  The  guest  thanked  him,  and  then 
asked  what  the  weather  was  like  (the  blinds  were 
drawn  so  that  the  sun  should  not  prevent  any  one 
from  sleeping  till  eleven  o'clock  if  he  were  so 
inclined),  and  whether  his  hosts  had  slept  well. 
He  glanced  at  his  watch  —  it  was  still  early  — 
and  began  to  wash  and  dress.  His  water  was 
ready,  and  everything  on  the  washing-stand  and 
dressing-table  was  ready  for  use  and  properly  laid 
out  —  his  soap,  his  tooth  and  hair  brushes,  his  nail 
scissors  and  files.  He  washed  his  hands  and  face 
in  a  leisurely  fashion,  cleaned  and  manicured  his 
nails,  pushed  back  the  skin  with  the  towel,  and 
sponged  his  stout  white  body  from  head  to  foot. 
Then  he  began  to  brush  his  hair.  Standing  in 
front  of  the  mirror,  he  first  brushed  his  curly 
beard,  which  was  beginning  to  turn  grey,  with  two 
English  brushes,  parting  it  down  the  middle. 
Then  he  combed  his  hair,  which  was  already  show- 
ing signs  of  getting  thin,  with  a  large  tortoise- 
shell  comb.  Putting  on  his  underlinen,  his  socks, 
his  boots,  his  trousers  —  which  were  held  up  by 
elegant  braces  —  and  his  waistcoat,  he  sat  down 


246      THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

coatless  in  an  easy  chair  to  rest  after  dressing,  lit 
a  cigarette,  and  began  to  think  where  he  should  go 
for  a  walk  that  morning  —  to  the  park  or  to  Lit- 
tleports  (what  a  funny  name  for  a  wood!).  He 
thought  he  would  go  to  Littleports.  Then  he 
must  answer  Simon  Nicholaevich's  letter;  but 
there  was  time  enough  for  that.  Getting  up  with 
an  air  of  resolution,  he  took  out  his  watch.  It 
was  already  five  minutes  to  nine.  He  put  his 
watch  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  his  purse  — 
with  all  that  was  left  of  the  hundred  and  eighty 
roubles  he  had  taken  for  his  journey,  and  for  the 
incidental  expenses  of  his  fortnight's  stay  with 
his  cousin  —  and  then  he  placed  into  his  trouser 
pocket  his  cigarette-case  and  electric  cigarette- 
lighter,  and  two  clean  handkerchiefs  into  his  coat 
pockets,  and  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  as 
usual  the  mess  and  confusion  which  he  had  made 
to  be  cleared  up  by  Stephen,  an  old  man  of  over 
fifty.  Stephen  expected  Volgin  to  "  remunerate  " 
him,  as  he  said,  being  so  accustomed  to  the  work 
that  he  did  not  feel  the  slightest  repugnance  for  it. 
Glancing  at  a  mirror,  and  feeling  satisfied  with 
his  appearance,  Volgin  went  into  the  dining-room. 
There,  thanks  to  the  efforts  of  the  housekeeper, 
the  footman,  and  under-butler  —  the  latter  had 
risen  at  dawn  in  order  to  run  home  to  sharpen  his 
son's  scythe  —  breakfast  was  ready.  On  a  spot- 
less   white    cloth    stood    a    boiling,    shiny,    silver 


THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE      247 

samovar  (at  least  it  looked  like  silver),  a  coffee- 
pot, hot  milk,  cream,  butter,  and  all  sorts  of  fancy 
white  bread  and  biscuits.  The  only  persons  at 
table  were  the  second  son  of  the  house,  his  tutor 
(a  student),  and  the  secretary.  The  host,  who 
was  an  active  member  of  the  Zemstvo  and  a  great 
farmer,  had  already  left  the  house,  having  gone 
at  eight  o'clock  to  attend  to  his  work.  Volgin, 
while  drinking  his  coffee,  talked  to  the  student 
and  the  secretary  about  the  weather,  and  yester- 
day's vint,  and  discussed  Theodorite's  peculiar  be- 
haviour the  night  before,  as  he  had  been  very 
rude  to  his  father  without  the  slightest  cause. 
Theodorite  was  the  grown-up  son  of  the  house, 
and  a  ne'er-do-well.  His  name  was  Theodore, 
but  some  one  had  once  called  him  Theodorite 
either  as  a  joke  or  to  tease  him;  and,  as  it  seemed 
funny,  the  name  stuck  to  him,  although  his  doings 
were  no  longer  in  the  least  amusing.  So  it  was 
now.  He  had  been  to  the  university,  but  left  it 
in  his  second  year,  and  joined  a  regiment  of  horse 
guards;  but  he  gave  that  up  also,  and  was  now 
living  in  the  country,  doing  nothing,  finding  fault, 
and  feeling  discontented  with  everything.  Theo- 
dorite was  still  in  bed:  so  were  the  other  members 
of  the  household  —  Anna  Mikhailovna,  its  mis- 
tress; her  sister,  the  widow  of  a  general;  and  a 
landscape  painter  who  lived  with  the  family. 
Volgin  took  his  panama  hat  from  the  hall  table 


248      THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

(it  had  cost  twenty  roubles)  and  his  cane  with  its 
carved  ivory  handle,  and  went  out.  Crossing  the 
veranda,  gay  with  flowers,  he  walked  through  the 
flower  garden,  in  the  centre  of  which  was  a  raised 
round  bed,  with  rings  of  red,  white,  and  blue 
flowers,  and  the  initials  of  the  mistress  of  the 
house  done  in  carpet  bedding  in  the  centre. 
Leaving  the  flower  garden  Volgin  entered  the 
avenue  of  lime  trees,  hundreds  of  years  old,  which 
peasant  girls  were  tidying  and  sweeping  with 
spades  and  brooms.  The  gardener  was  busy 
measuring,  and  a  boy  was  bringing  something  in 
a  cart.  Passing  these  Volgin  went  into  the  park 
of  at  least  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  acres, 
filled  with  fine  old  trees,  and  intersected  by  a 
network  of  well-kept  walks.  Smoking  as  he 
strolled  Volgin  took  his  favourite  path  past  the 
summer-house  into  the  fields  beyond.  It  was 
pleasant  in  the  park,  but  it  was  still  nicer  in  the 
fields.  On  the  right  some  women  who  were  dig- 
ging potatoes  formed  a  mass  of  bright  red  and 
white  colour;  on  the  left  were  wheat  fields,  mead- 
ows, and  grazing  cattle;  and  in  the  foreground, 
slightly  to  the  right,  were  the  dark,  dark  oaks  of 
Littleports.  Volgin  took  a  deep  breath,  and  felt 
glad  that  he  was  alive,  especially  here  in  his 
cousin's  home,  where  he  was  so  thoroughly  en- 
joying the  rest  from  his  work  at  the  bank. 


THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE      249 

"  Lucky  people  to  live  in  the  country,"  he 
thought.  "  True,  what  with  his  farming  and  his 
Zemstvo,  the  owner  of  the  estate  has  very  little 
peace  even  in  the  country,  but  that  is  his  own 
lookout."  Volgin  shook  his  head,  lit  another 
cigarette,  and,  stepping  out  firmly  with  his  power- 
ful feet  clad  in  his  thick  English  boots,  began  to 
think  of  the  heavy  winter's  work  in  the  bank  that 
was  in  front  of  him.  "  I  shall  be  there  every  day 
from  ten  to  two,  sometimes  even  till  five.  And 
the  board  meetings.  .  .  ,  And  private  inter- 
views with  clients.  .  .  .  Then  the  Duma. 
Whereas  here.  ...  It  is  delightful.  It 
'may  be  a  little  dull,  but  it  is  not  for  long."  He 
smiled.  After  a  stroll  in  Littleports  he  turned 
back,  going  straight  across  a  fallow  field  which 
was  being  ploughed.  A  herd  of  cows,  calves, 
sheep,  and  pigs,  which  belonged  to  the  village 
community,  was  grazing  there.  The  shortest 
way  to  the  park  was  to  pass  through  the  herd. 
He  frightened  the  sheep,  which  ran  away  one 
after  another,  and  were  followed  by  the  pigs,  of 
which  two  little  ones  stared  solemnly  at  him. 
The  shepherd  boy  called  to  the  sheep  and  cracked 
his  whip.  "  How  far  behind  Europe  we  are," 
thought  Volgin,  recalling  his  frequent  holidays 
abroad.  "  You  would  not  find  a  single  cow  like 
that    anywhere    in    Europe."     Then,    wanting   to 


250      THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

find  out  where  the  path  which  branched  off  from 
the  one  he  was  on  led  to  and  who  was  the  owner 
of  the  herd,  he  called  to  the  boy. 

"  Whose  herd  is  it?  " 

The  boy  was  so  filled  with  wonder,  verging  on 
terror,  when  he  gazed  at  the  hat,  the  well-brushed 
beard,  and  above  all  the  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses, 
that  he  could  not  reply  at  once.  When  Volgin 
repeated  his  question  the  boy  pulled  himself  to- 
gether, and  said,  "  Ours."  "  But  whose  is 
'ours'?"  said  Volgin,  shaking  his  head  and 
smiling.  The  boy  was  wearing  shoes  of  plaited 
birch  bark,  bands  of  linen  round  his  legs,  a  dirty, 
unbleached  shirt  ragged  at  the  shoulder,  and  a  cap 
the  peak  of  which  had  been  torn. 

"  Whose  is  '  ours  '?  " 

"The  Pirogov  village  herd." 

"  How  old  are  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Can  you  read?  " 

"  No,  I  can't." 

"Didn't  you   go   to  school?" 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"  Couldn't  you  learn  to  read?" 

"  No." 

"Where  does  that  path  lead?" 

The  boy  told  him,  and  Volgin  went  on  to- 
wards  the   house,   thinking   how   he   would   chaff 


THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE      251 

Nicholas  Petrovich  about  the  deplorable  condi- 
tion of  the  village  schools  in  spite  of  all  his  ef- 
forts. 

On  approaching  the  house  Volgin  looked  at  his 
watch,  and  saw  that  it  was  already  past  eleven. 
He  remembered  that  Nicholas  Petrovich  was 
going  to  drive  to  the  nearest  town,  and  that  he 
had  meant  to  give  him  a  letter  to  post  to  Moscow; 
but  the  letter  was  not  written.  The  letter  was  a 
very  important  one  to  a  friend,  asking  him  to  bid 
for  him  for  a  picture  of  the  Madonna  which  was 
to  be  offered  for  sale  at  an  auction.  As  he 
reached  the  house  he  saw  at  the  door  four  big, 
well-fed,  well-groomed,  thoroughbred  horses  har- 
nessed to  a  carriage,  the  black  lacquer  of  which 
glistened  in  the  sun.  The  coachman  was  seated 
on  the  box  in  a  kaftan,  with  a  silver  belt,  and  the 
horses  were  jingling  their  silver  bells  from  time 
to  time. 

A  bare-headed,  bare-footed  peasant  in  a  ragged 
kaftan  stood  at  the  front  door.  He  bowed. 
Volgin  asked  what  he  wanted. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  Nicholas  Petrovich." 

"  What  about?"  .    - 

"Because  I  am  in  distress  —  my  horse  has 
died." 

Volgin  began  to  question  him.  The  peasant 
told  him  how  he  was  situated.      He  had  five  chil- 


252      THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

dren,  and  this  had  been  his  only  horse.  Now 
it  was  gone.     He  wept. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  To  beg."  And  he  knelt  down,  and  remained 
kneeling  in  spite  of  Volgin's  expostulations. 

"  What  is  your  name?  " 

"  Mitri  Sudarikov,"  answered  the  peasant,  still 
kneeling. 

Volgin  took  three  roubles  from  his  purse  and 
gave  them  to  the  peasant,  who  showed  his  grat- 
itude by  touching  the  ground  with  his  forehead, 
and  then  went  into  the  house.  His  host  was 
standing  in  the  hall. 

"  Where  is  your  letter?  "  he  asked,  approach- 
ing Volgin;  "  I  am  just  off." 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,  I'll  write  it  this  minute,  if 
you  will  let  me.  I  forgot  all  about  it.  It's  so 
pleasant   here  that  one  can   forget  anything." 

"  All  right,  but  do  be  quick.  The  horses  have 
already  been  standing  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and 
the  flies  are  biting  viciously.  Can  you  wait,  Ar- 
senty?"  he  asked  the  coachman. 

"Why  not?"  said  the  coachman,  thinking  to 
himself,  "  why  do  they  order  the  horses  when 
they  aren't  ready?  The  rush  the  grooms  and  I 
had  —  just  to  stand  here  and  feed  the  flies." 

"  Directly,  directly,"  Volgin  went  towards  his 
room,  but  turned  back  to  ask  Nicholas  Petrovich 
about  the  begging  peasant. 


THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE      253 

"Did  you  see  him?  —  He's  a  drunkard,  but 
still  he  is  to  be  pitied.     Do  be  quick!  " 

Volgin  got  out  his  case,  with  all  the  requisites 
for  writing,  wrote  the  letter,  made  out  a  cheque 
for  a  hundred  and  eighty  roubles,  and,  sealing 
down  the  envelope,  took  it  to  Nicholas  Petrovich. 

"  Good-bye." 

Volgin  read  the  newspapers  till  luncheon.  He 
only  read  the  Liberal  papers:  The  Russian 
Gazette,  Speech,  sometimes  The  Russian  Word 
—  but  he  would  not  touch  The  New  Times,  to 
which  his  host  subscribed. 

While  he  was  scanning  at  his  ease  the  political 
news,  the  Tsar's  doings,  the  doings  of  President, 
and  ministers  and  decisions  in  the  Duma,  and  was 
just  about  to  pass  on  to  the  general  news,  thea- 
tres, science,  murders  and  cholera,  he  heard  the 
luncheon  bell  ring. 

Thanks  to  the  efforts  of  upwards  of  ten  human 
beings  —  counting  laundresses,  gardeners,  cooks, 
kitchen-maids,  butlers  and  footmen  —  the  table 
was  sumptuously  laid  for  eight,  with  silver  water- 
jugs,  decanters,  kvass,  wine,  mineral  waters,  cut 
glass,  and  fine  table  linen,  while  two  men-servants 
were  continually  hurrying  to  and  fro,  bringing 
in  and  serving,  and  then  clearing  away  the 
hors  d'ceuvre  and  the  various  hot  and  cold 
courses. 

The    hostess    talked    incessantly    about    every- 


254      THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

thing  that  she  had  been  doing,  thinking,  and  say- 
ing; and  she  evidently  considered  that  everything 
that  she  thought,  said,  or  did  was  perfect,  and 
that  it  would  please  every  one  except  those  who 
were  fools.  Volgin  felt  and  knew  that  every- 
thing she  said  was  stupid,  but  it  would  never  do 
to  let  it  be  seen,  and  so  he  kept  up  the  conversa- 
tion. Theodorite  was  glum  and  silent;  the  stu- 
dent occasionally  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the 
widow.  Now  and  again  there  was  a  pause  in 
the  conversation,  and  then  Theodorite  interposed, 
and  every  one  became  miserably  depressed.  At 
such  moments  the  hostess  ordered  some  dish  that 
had  not  been  served,  and  the  footman  hurried 
off  to  the  kitchen,  or  to  the  housekeeper,  and  hur- 
ried back  again.  Nobody  felt  inclined  either  to 
talk  or  to  eat.  But  they  all  forced  themselves 
to  eat  and  to  talk,  and  so  luncheon  went  on. 

The  peasant  who  had  been  begging  because  his 
horse  had  died  was  named  Mitri  Sudarikov.  He 
had  spent  the  whole  day  before  he  went  to  the 
squire  over  his  dead  horse.  First  of  all  he  went 
to  the  knacker,  Sanin,  who  lived  in  a  village  near. 
The  knacker  was  out,  but  he  waited  for  him,  and 
it  was  dinner-time  when  he  had  finished  bargain- 
ing over  the  price  of  the  skin.  Then  he  bor- 
rowed a  neighbour's  horse  to  take  his  own  to  a 
field  to  be  buried,  as  it  is  forbidden  to  bury  dead 


THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE      255 

animals  near  a  village.  Adrian  would  not  lend 
his  horse  because  he  was  getting  in  his  potatoes, 
but  Stephen  took  pity  on  Mitri  and  gave  way  to 
his  persuasion.  He  even  lent  a  hand  in  lifting 
the  dead  horse  into  the  cart.  Mitri  tore  off  the 
shoes  from  the  forelegs  and  gave  them  to  his 
wife.  One  was  broken,  but  the  other  one  was 
whole.  While  he  was  digging  the  grave  with  a 
spade  which  was  very  blunt,  the  knacker  appeared 
and  took  off  the  skin;  and  the  carcass  was  then 
thrown  into  the  hole  and  covered  up.  Mitri  felt 
tired,  and  went  into  Matrena's  hut,  where  he 
drank  half  a  bottle  of  vodka  with  Sanin  to  con- 
sole himself.  Then  he  went  home,  quarrelled 
with  his  wife,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  on  the  hay. 
He  did  not  undress,  but  slept  just  as  he  was,  with 
a  ragged  coat  for  a  coverlet.  His  wife  was  in 
the  hut  with  the  girls  —  there  were  four  of  them, 
and  the  youngest  was  only  five  weeks  old.  Mitri 
woke  up  before  dawn  as  usual.  He  groaned  as 
the  memory  of  the  day  before  broke  in  upon  him 
— ■  how  the  horse  had  struggled  and  struggled, 
and  then  fallen  down.  Now  there  was  no  horse, 
and  all  he  had  was  the  price  of  the  skin,  four 
roubles  and  eighty  kopeks.  Getting  up  he  ar- 
ranged the  linen  bands  on  his  legs,  and  went 
through  the  yard  into  the  hut.  His  wife  was  put- 
ting straw   into   the   stove   with   one   hand,    with 


256      THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

the  other  she  was  holding  a  baby  girl  to  her 
breast,  which  was  hanging  out  of  her  dirty 
chemise. 

Mitri  crossed  himself  three  times,  turning 
towards  the  corner  in  which  the  ikons  hung,  and 
repeated  some  utterly  meaningless  words,  which 
he  called  prayers,  to  the  Trinity  and  the  Virgin, 
the  Creed  and  our  Father. 

"  Isn't  there  any  water?  " 

"  The  girl's  gone  for  it.  I've  got  some  tea. 
Will  you  go  up  to  the  squire?  " 

"  Yes,  I'd  better."  The  smoke  from  the  stove 
made  him  cough.  He  took  a  rag  off  the  wooden 
bench  and  went  into  the  porch.  The  girl  had 
just  come  back  with  the  water.  Mitri  filled  his 
mouth  with  water  from  the  pail  and  squirted  it 
out  on  his  hands,  took  some  more  in  his  mouth 
to  wash  his  face,  dried  himself  with  the  rag,  then 
parted  and  smoothed  his  curly  hair  with  his  fin- 
gers and  went  out.  A  little  girl  of  about  ten, 
with  nothing  on  but  a  dirty  shirt,  came  towards 
him.  "Good-morning,  Uncle  Mitri,"  she  said; 
"  you  are  to  come  and  thrash."  "  All  right,  I'll 
come,"  replied  Mitri.  He  understood  that  he 
was  expected  to  return  the  help  given  the  week 
before  by  Kumushkir,  a  man  as  poor  as  he  was 
himself,  when  he  was  thrashing  his  own  corn  with 
a  horse-driven  machine. 

"  Tell  them  I'll  come  —  I'll  come  at  lunch  time. 


THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE      257 

I've  got  to  go  to  Ugrumi."  Mitri  went  back  to 
the  hut,  and  changing  his  birch-bark  shoes  and  the 
linen  bands  on  his  legs,  started  off  to  see  the 
squire.  After  he  had  got  three  roubles  from 
Volgin,  and  the  same  sum  from  Nicholas  Petro- 
vich,  he  returned  to  his  house,  gave  the  money  to 
his  wife,  and  went  to  his  neighbour's.  The  thrash- 
ing machine  was  humming,  and  the  driver  was 
shouting.  The  lean  horses  were  going  slowly 
round  him,  straining  at  their  traces.  The  driver 
was  shouting  to  them  in  a  monotone,  "  Now,  there, 
my  dears."  Some  women  were  unbinding  sheaves, 
others  were  raking  up  the  scattered  straw  and  ears, 
and  others  again  were  gathering  great  armfuls  of 
corn  and  handing  them  to  the  men  to  feed  the 
machine.  The  work  was  in  full  swing.  In  the 
kitchen  garden,  which  Mitri  had  to  pass,  a  girl, 
clad  only  in  a  long  shirt,  was  digging  potatoes 
which  she  put  into  a  basket. 

"Where's  your  grandfather?"  asked  Mitri. 
"  He's  in  the  barn."  Mitri  went  to  the  barn  and 
set  to  work  at  once.  The  old  man  of  eighty  knew 
of  Mitri's  trouble.  After  greeting  him,  he  gave 
him  his  place  to  feed  the  machine. 

Mitri  took  off  his  ragged  coat,  laid  it  out  of  the 
way  near  the  fence,  and  then  began  to  work  vig- 
orously, raking  the  corn  together  and  throwing 
it  into  the  machine.  The  work  went  on  without 
interruption    until    the    dinner-hour.     The    cocks 


258      THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

had  crowed  two  or  three  times,  but  no  one  paid 
any  attention  to  them;  not  because  the  workers 
did  not  believe  them,  but  because  they  were 
scarcely  heard  for  the  noise  of  the  work  and  the 
talk  about  it.  At  last  the  whistle  of  the  squire's 
steam  thrasher  sounded  three  miles  away,  and  then 
the  owner  came  into  the  barn.  He  was  a  straight 
old  man  of  eighty.  "  It's  time  to  stop,"  he  said; 
"  it's  dinner-time."  Those  at  work  seemed  to 
redouble  their  efforts.  In  a  moment  the  straw 
was  cleared  away;  the  grain  that  had  been 
thrashed  was  separated  from  the  chaff  and  brought 
in,  and  then  the  workers  went  into  the  hut. 

The  hut  was  smoke-begrimed,  as  its  stove  had 
no  chimney,  but  it  had  been  tidied  up,  and  benches 
stood  round  the  table,  making  room  for  all  those 
who  had  been  working,  of  whom  there  were  nine, 
not  counting  the  owners.  Bread,  soup,  boiled 
potatoes,  and  kvass  were  placed  on  the  table. 

An  old  one-armed  beggar,  with  a  bag  slung  over 
his  shoulder,  came  in  with  a  crutch  during  the  meal. 
"  Peace  be  to  this  house.     A  good  appetite  to 
you.      For  Christ's  sake  give  me  something." 

"  God  will  give  it  to  you,"  said  the  mistress, 
already  an  old  woman,  and  the  daughter-in-law  of 
the  master.  "  Don't  be  angry  with  us."  An  old 
man,  who  was  still  standing  near  the  door,  said, 
"  Give  him  some  bread,  Martha.    How  can  you?  " 


THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE      259 

"  I  am  only  wondering  whether  we  shall  have 
enough."  "  Oh,  it  is  wrong,  Martha.  God  tells 
us  to  help  the  poor.      Cut  him  a  slice." 

Martha  obeyed.  The  beggar  went  away.  The 
man  in  charge  of  the  thrashing-machine  got  up, 
said  grace,  thanked  his  hosts,  and  went  away  to 
rest. 

Mitri  did  not  lie  down,  but  ran  to  the  shop  to 
buy  some  tobacco.  He  was  longing  for  a  smoke. 
While  he  smoked  he  chatted  to  a  man  from 
Demensk,  asking  the  price  of  cattle,  as  he  saw 
that  he  would  not  be  able  to  manage  without  sell- 
ing a  cow.  When  he  returned  to  the  others,  they 
were  already  back  at  work  again;  and  so  it  went 
on  till  the  evening. 

Among  these  downtrodden,  duped,  and  de- 
frauded men,  who  are  becoming  demoralised  by 
overwork,  and  being  gradually  done  to  death 
by  underfeeding,  there  are  men  living  who 
consider  themselves  Christians;  and  others  so 
enlightened  that  they  feel  no  further  need  for 
Christianity  or  for  any  religion,  so  superior  do 
they  appear  in  their  own  esteem.  And  yet  their 
hideous,  lazy  lives  are  supported  by  the  degrading, 
excessive  labour  of  these  slaves,  not  to  mention 
the  labour  of  millions  of  other  slaves,  toiling  in 
factories  to  produce  samovars,  silver,  carriages, 
machines,  and  the  like  for  their  use.     They  live 


26o      THERE  ARE  NO  GUILTY  PEOPLE 

among  these  horrors,  seeing  them  and  yet  not 
seeing  them,  although  often  kind  at  heart  —  old 
men  and  women,  young  men  and  maidens,  mothers 
and  children  —  poor  children  who  are  being  viti- 
ated and  trained  into  moral  blindness. 

Here  is  a  bachelor  grown  old,  the  owner  of 
thousands  of  acres,  who  has  lived  a  life  of  idle- 
ness, greed,  and  over-indulgence,  who  reads  The 
New  Times,  and  is  astonished  that  the  govern- 
ment can  be  so  unwise  as  to  permit  Jews  to  enter 
the  university.  There  is  his  guest,  formerly  the 
governor  of  a  province,  now  a  senator  with  a  big 
salary,  who  reads  with  satisfaction  that  a  congress 
of  lawyers  has  passed  a  resolution  in  favor  of 
capital  punishment.  Their  political  enemy,  N.  P., 
reads  a  liberal  paper,  and  cannot  understand  the 
blindness  of  the  government  in  allowing  the  union 
of  Russian  men  to  exist. 

Here  is  a  kind,  gentle  mother  of  a  little  girl 
reading  a  story  to  her  about  Fox,  a  dog  that 
lamed  some  rabbits.  And  here  is  this  little  girl. 
During  her  walks  she  sees  other  children,  bare- 
footed, hungry,  hunting  for  green  apples  that  have 
fallen  from  the  trees;  and,  so  accustomed  is  she 
to  the  sight,  that  these  children  do  not  seem  to  her 
to  be  children  such  as  she  is,  but  only  part  of  the 
usual  surroundings  —  the  familiar  landscape. 

Why  is  this? 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

The  young  Tsar  had  just  ascended  the  throne. 
For  five  weeks  he  had  worked  without  ceasing,  in 
the  way  that  Tsars  are  accustomed  to  work.  He 
had  been  attending  to  reports,  signing  papers,  re- 
ceiving ambassadors  and  high  officials  who  came 
to  be  presented  to  him,  and  reviewing  troops.  He 
was  tired,  and  as  a  traveller  exhausted  by  heat 
and  thirst  longs  for  a  draught  of  water  and  for 
rest,  so  he  longed  for  a  respite  of  just  one  day 
at  least  from  receptions,  from  speeches,  from 
parades  —  a  few  free  hours  to  spend  like  an  ordi- 
nary human  being  with  his  young,  clever,  and 
beautiful  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  married  only 
a  month  before. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve.  The  young  Tsar  had 
arranged  to  have  a  complete  rest  that  evening. 
The  night  before  he  had  worked  till  very  late  at 
documents  which  his  ministers  of  state  had  left 
for  him  to  examine.  In  the  morning  he  was 
present  at  the  Te  Deum,  and  then  at  a  military 
service.  In  the  afternoon  he  received  official 
visitors;  and  later  he  had  been  obliged  to  listen 
263 


264  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

to  the  reports  of  three  ministers  of  state,  and  had 
given  his  assent  to  many  important  matters.  In 
his  conference  with  the  Minister  of  Finance  he 
had  agreed  to  an  increase  of  duties  on  imported 
goods,  which  should  in  the  future  add  many  mil- 
lions to  the  State  revenues.  Then  he  sanctioned 
the  sale  of  brandy  by  the  Crown  in  various  parts 
of  the  country,  and  signed  a  decree  permitting  the 
sale  of  alcohol  in  villages  having  markets.  This 
was  also  calculated  to  increase  the  principal 
revenue  to  the  State,  which  was  derived  from  the 
sale  of  spirits.  He  had  also  approved  of  the 
issuing  of  a  new  gold  loan  required  for  a  financial 
negotiation.  The  Minister  of  Justice  having  re- 
ported on  the  complicated  case  of  the  succession 
of  the  Baron  Snyders,  the  young  Tsar  confirmed 
the  decision  by  his  signature;  and  also  approved 
the  new  rules  relating  to  the  application  of  Arti- 
cle 1830  of  the  penal  code,  providing  for  the  pun- 
ishment of  tramps.  In  his  conference  with  the 
Minister  of  the  Interior  he  ratified  the  order  con- 
cerning the  collection  of  taxes  in  arrears,  signed 
the  order  settling  what  measures  should  be  taken 
in  regard  to  the  persecution  of  religious  dissenters, 
and  also  one  providing  for  the  continuance  of 
martial  law  in  those  provinces  where  it  had  al- 
ready been  established.  With  the  Minister  of 
War  he   arranged   for  the  nomination  of  a   new 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  265 

Corps  Commander  for  the  raising  of  recruits,  and 
for  punishment  of  breach  of  discipline.  These 
things  kept  him  occupied  till  dinner-time,  and  even 
then  his  freedom  was  not  complete.  A  number 
of  high  officials  had  been  invited  to  dinner,  and 
he  was  obliged  to  talk  to  them  :  not  in  the  way  he 
felt  disposed  to  do,  but  according  to  what  he  was 
expected  to  say.  At  last  the  tiresome  dinner  was 
over,  and  the  guests  departed. 

The  young  Tsar  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief, 
stretched  himself  and  retired  to  his  apartments 
to  take  off  his  uniform  with  the  decorations  on  it, 
and  to  don  the  jacket  he  used  to  wear  before  his 
accession  to  the  throne.  His  young  wife  had  also 
retired  to  take  off  her  dinner-dress,  remarking 
that  she  would  join  him  presently. 

When  he  had  passed  the  row  of  footmen  who 
were  standing  erect  before  him,  and  reached  his 
room;  when  he  had  thrown  off  his  heavy  uniform 
and  put  on  his  jacket,  the  young  Tsar  felt  glad  to 
be  free  from  work;  and  his  heart  was  filled  with  a 
tender  emotion  which  sprang  from  the  conscious- 
ness of  his  freedom,  of  his  joyous,  robust  young 
life,  and  of  his  love.  He  threw  himself  on  the 
sofa,  stretched  out  his  legs  upon  it,  leaned  his  head 
on  his  hand,  fixed  his  gaze  on  the  dull  glass  shade 
of  the  lamp,  and  then  a  sensation  which  he  had  not 
experienced  since  his  childhood, — the  pleasure  of 


266  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

going  to  sleep,  and  a  drowsiness  that  was  irresist- 
ible —  suddenly  came  over  him. 

"  My  wife  will  be  here  presently  and  will  find 
ime  asleep.  No,  I  must  not  go  to  sleep,"  he 
thought.  He  let  his  elbow  drop  down,  laid  his 
cheek  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  made  himself  com- 
fortable, and  was  so  utterly  happy  that  he  only 
felt  a  desire  not  to  be  aroused  from  this  delight- 
ful state. 

And  then  what  happens  to  all  of  us  every  day 
happened  to  him  —  he  fell  asleep  without  know- 
ing himself  when  or  how.  He  passed  from  one 
state  into  another  without  his  will  having  any 
share  in  it,  without  even  desiring  it,  and  without 
regretting  the  state  out  of  which  he  had  passed. 
He  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep  which  was  like  death. 
How  long  he  had  slept  he  did  not  know,  but 
he  was  suddenly  aroused  by  the  soft  touch  of  a 
hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  It  is  my  darling,  it  is  she,"  he  thought. 
"  What  a  shame  to  have  dozed  off !  " 

But  it  was  not  she.  Before  his  eyes,  which 
were  wide  open  and  blinking  at  the  light,  she, 
that  charming  and  beautiful  creature  whom  he  was 
expecting,  did  not  stand,  but  he  stood.  Who  he 
was  the  young  Tsar  did  not  know,  but  somehow 
it  did  not  strike  him  that  he  was  a  stranger  whom 
he  had  never  seen  before.     It  seemed  as  if  he  had 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  267 

known  him  for  a  long  time  and  was  fond  of 
him,  and  as  if  he  trusted  him  as  he  would  trust 
himself.  He  had  expected  his  beloved  wife,  but 
in  her  stead  that  man  whom  he  had  never  seen 
before  had  come.  Yet  to  the  young  Tsar,  who 
was  far  from  feeling  regret  or  astonishment,  it 
seemed  not  only  a  most  natural,  but  also  a  neces- 
sary thing  to  happen. 

"  Come!  "  said  the  stranger. 

"  Yes,  let  us  go,"  said  the  young  Tsar,  not 
knowing  where  he  was  to  go,  but  quite  aware 
that  he  could  not  help  submitting  to  the  com- 
mand of  the  stranger.  "  But  how  shall  we  go?  " 
he  asked.  * 

"  In  this  way." 

The  stranger  laid  his  hand  on  the  Tsar's  head, 
and  the  Tsar  for  a  moment  lost  consciousness. 
He  could  not  tell  whether  he  had  been  uncon- 
scious a  long  or  a  short  time,  but  when  he  re- 
covered his  senses  he  found  himself  in  a  strange 
place.  The  first  thing  he  was  aware  of  was  a 
strong  and  stifling  smell  of  sewage.  The  place 
in  which  he  stood  was  a  broad  passage  lit  by  the 
red  glow  of  two  dim  lamps.  Running  along  one 
side  of  the  passage  was  a  thick  wall  with  windows 
protected  by  iron  gratings.  On  the  other  side 
were  doors  secured  with  locks.  In  the  passage 
stood  a  soldier,  leaning  up  against  the  wall,  asleep. 


268  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

Through  the  doors  the  young  Tsar  heard  the 
muffled  sound  of  living  human  beings:  not  of 
one  alone,  but  of  many.  He  was  standing  at  the 
side  of  the  young  Tsar,  and  pressing  his  shoulder 
slightly  with  his  soft  hand,  pushed  him  to  the 
first  door,  unmindful  of  the  sentry.  The  young 
Tsar  felt  he  could  not  do  otherwise  than  yield, 
and  approached  the  door.  To  his  amazement 
the  sentry  looked  straight  at  him,  evidently  with- 
out seeing  him,  as  he  neither  straightened  himself 
up  nor  saluted,  but  yawned  loudly  and,  lifting 
his  hand,  scratched  the  back  of  his  neck.  The 
door  had  a  small  hole,  and  in  obedience  to  the 
'pressure  of  the  hand  that  pushed  him,  the  young 
Tsar  approached  a  step  nearer  and  put  his  eye  to 
the  small  opening.  Close  to  the  door,  the  foul 
smell  that  stifled  him  was  stronger,  and  the  young 
Tsar  hesitated  to  go  nearer,  but  the  hand  pushed 
him  on.  He  leaned  forward,  put  his  eye  close 
to  the  opening,  and  suddenly  ceased  to  perceive 
the  odour.  The  sight  he  saw  deadened  his  sense 
of  smell.  In  a  large  room,  about  ten  yards  long 
and  six  yards  wide,  there  walked  unceasingly  from 
one  end  to  the  other,  six  men  in  long  grey 
coats,  some  in  felt  boots,  some  barefoot.  There 
were  over  twenty  men  in  all  in  the  room,  but 
in  that  first  moment  the  young  Tsar  only  saw 
those  who  were  walking  with  quick,  even,  silent 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  269 

steps.  It  was  a  horrid  sight  to  watch  the  con- 
tinual, quick,  aimless  movements  of  the  men  who 
passed  and  overtook  each  other,  turning  sharply 
when  they  reached  the  wall,  never  looking  at  one 
another,  and  evidently  concentrated  each  on  his 
own  thoughts.  The  young  Tsar  had  observed  a 
similar  sight  one  day  when  he  was  watching  a  tiger 
in  a  menagerie  pacing  rapidly  with  noiseless  tread 
from  one  end  of  his  cage  to  the  other,  waving  its 
tail,  silently  turning  when  it  reached  the  bars,  and 
looking  at  nobody.  Of  these  men  one,  appar- 
ently a  young  peasant,  with  curly  hair,  would 
have  been  handsome  were  it  not  for  the  unnatural 
pallor  of  his  face,  and  the  concentrated,  wicked, 
scarcely  human,  look  in  his  eyes.  Another  was 
a  Jew,  hairy  and  gloomy.  The  third  was  a  lean 
old  man,  bald,  with  a  beard  that  had  been  shaven 
and  had  since  grown  like  bristles.  The  fourth  was 
extraordinarily  heavily  built,  with  well-developed 
muscles,  a  low  receding  forehead  and  a  flat  nose. 
The  fifth  was  hardly  more  than  a  boy,  long, 
thin,  obviously  consumptive.  The  sixth  was 
small  and  dark,  with  nervous,  convulsive  move- 
ments. He  walked  as  if  he  were  skipping,  and 
muttered  continuously  to  himself.  They  were 
all  walking  rapidly  backwards  and  forwards  past 
the  hole  through  which  the  young  Tsar  was  look- 
ing.    He  watched  their  faces  and  their  gait  with 


27o  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

keen  interest.  Having  examined  them  closely,  he 
presently  became  aware  of  a  number  of  other  men 
at  the  back  of  the  room,  standing  round,  or  lying 
on  the  shelf  that  served  as  a  bed.  Standing  close 
to  the  door  he  also  saw  the  pail  which  caused 
such  an  unbearable  stench.  On  the  shelf  about 
ten  men,  entirely  covered  with  their  cloaks,  were 
sleeping.  A  red-haired  man  with  a  huge  beard 
was  sitting  sideways  on  the  shelf,  with  his  shirt 
off.  He  was  examining  it,  lifting  it  up  to  the 
light,  and  evidently  catching  the  vermin  on  it. 
Another  man,  aged  and  white  as  snow,  stood  with 
his  profile  turned  towards  the  door.  He  was 
praying,  crossing  himself,  and  bowing  low,  ap- 
parently so  absorbed  in  his  devotions  as  to  be 
oblivious  of  all  around  him. 

"  I  see  —  this  is  a  prison,"  thought  the  young 
Tsar.  "  They  certainly  deserve  pity.  It  is  a 
dreadful  life.  But  it  cannot  be  helped.  It  is 
their  own  fault." 

.  But  this  thought  had  hardly  come  into  his 
head  before  he,  who  was  his  guide,  replied  to 
it. 

"  They  are  all  here  under  lock  and  key  by  your 
order.  They  have  all  been  sentenced  in  your 
name.  But  far  from  meriting  their  present  con- 
dition which  is  due  to  your  human  judgment,  the 
greater  part  of  them  are  far  better  than  you  or 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  271 

those  who  were  their  judges  and  who  keep  them 
here.  This  one  "  —  he  pointed  to  the  handsome, 
curly-headed  fellow  —  "  is  a  murderer.  I  do  not 
consider  him  more  guilty  than  those  who  kill  in 
war  or  in  duelling,  and  are  rewarded  for  their 
deeds.  He  had  neither  education  nor  moral 
guidance,  and  his  life  had  been  cast  among  thieves 
and  drunkards.  This  lessens  his  guilt,  but  he  has 
done  wrong,  nevertheless,  in  being  a  murderer. 
•  He  killed  a  merchant,  to  rob  him.  The  other 
man,  the  Jew,  is  a  thief,  one  of  a  gang  of  thieves. 
That  uncommonly  strong  fellow  is  a  horse-stealer, 
and  guilty  also,  but  compared  with  others  not  as 
culpable.  Look!" — and  suddenly  the  young 
Tsar  found  himself  in  an  open  field  on  a  vast 
frontier.  On  the  right  were  potato  fields;  the 
plants  had  been  rooted  out,  and  were  lying  in 
heaps,  blackened  by  the  frost;  in  alternate  streaks 
were  rows  of  winter  corn.  In  the  distance  a  little 
village  with  its  tiled  roofs  was  visible;  on  the  left 
were  fields  of  winter  corn,  and  fields  of  stubble. 
No  one  was  to  be  seen  on  any  side,  save  a  black 
human  figure  in  front  at  the  border-line,  a  gun 
slung  on  his  back,  and  at  his  feet  a  dog.  On  the 
spot  where  the  young  Tsar  stood,  sitting  beside 
him,  almost  at  his  feet,  was  a  young  Russian 
soldier  with  a  green  band  on  his  cap,  and  with  his 
rifle  slung  over  his  shoulders,  who  was  rolling  up 


272  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

a  paper  to  make  a  cigarette.  The  soldier  was 
obviously  unaware  of  the  presence  of  the  young 
Tsar  and  his  companion,  and  had  not  heard  them. 
He  did  now  turn  round  when  the  Tsar,  who  was 
standing  directly  over  the  soldier,  asked,  "  Where 
are  we?  "  "  On  the  Prussian  frontier,"  his  guide 
answered.  Suddenly,  far  away  in  front  of  them, 
a  shot  was  fired.  The  soldier  jumped  to  his  feet, 
and  seeing  two  men  running,  bent  low  to  the 
ground,  hastily  put  his  tobacco  into  his  pocket, 
and  ran  after  one  of  them.  "  Stop,  or  I'll 
shoot !  "  cried  the  soldier.  The  fugitive,  without 
stopping,  turned  his  head  and  called  out  something 
evidently  abusive  or  blasphemous. 

"  Damn  you !  "  shouted  the  soldier,  who  put  one 
foot  a  little  forward  and  stopped,  after  which, 
bending  his  head  over  his  rifle,  and  raising  his 
right  hand,  he  rapidly  adjusted  something,  took 
aim,  and,  pointing  the  gun  in  the  direction  of  the 
fugitive,  probably  fired,  although  no  sound  was 
heard.  "  Smokeless  powder,  no  doubt,"  thought 
the  young  Tsar,  and  looking  after  the  fleeing  man 
saw  him  take  a  few  hurried  steps,  and  bending 
lower  and  lower,  fall  to  the  ground  and  crawl  on 
his  hands  and  knees.  At  last  he  remained  lying 
and  did  not  move.  The  other  fugitive,  who  was 
ahead  of  him,  turned  round  and  ran  back  to 
the    man    who   was   lying    on    the    ground.     He 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  273 

did  something  for  him  and  then  resumed  his 
flight. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean?  "  asked  the  Tsar. 

"  These  are  the  guards  on  the  frontier,  enforc- 
ing the  revenue  laws.  That  man  was  killed  to 
protect  the  revenues  of  the  State." 

"  Has  he  actually  been  killed?  " 

The  guide  again  laid  his  hand  upon  the  head  of 
the  young  Tsar,  and  again  the  Tsar  lost  conscious- 
ness. When  he  had  recovered  his  senses  he  found 
himself  in  a  small  room  —  the  customs  office. 
The  dead  body  of  a  man,  with  a  thin  grizzled 
beard,  an  aquiline  nose,  and  big  eyes  with  the 
eyelids  closed,  was  lying  on  the  floor.  His  arms 
were  thrown  asunder,  his  feet  bare,  and  his  thick, 
dirty  toes  were  turned  up  at  right  angles  and  stuck 
out  straight.  He  had  a  wound  in  his  side,  and 
on  his  ragged  cloth  jacket,  as  well  as  on  his  blue 
shirt,  were  stains  of  clotted  blood,  which  had 
turned  black  save  for  a  few  red  spots  here  and 
there.  A  woman  stood  close  to  the  wall,  so 
wrapped  up  in  shawls  that  her  face  could  scarcely 
be  seen.  Motionless  she  gazed  at  the  aquiline 
nose,  the  upturned  feet,  and  the  protruding  eye- 
balls; sobbing  and  sighing,  and  drying  her  tears  at 
long,  regular  intervals.  A  pretty  girl  of  thirteen 
was  standing  at  her  mother's  side,  with  her  eyes 
and  mouth  wide  open.     A  boy  of  eight  clung  to 


274  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

his  mother's  skirt,  and  looked  intensely  at  his  dead 
father  without  blinking. 

From  a  door  near  them  an  official,  an  officer,  a 
doctor,  and  a  clerk  with  documents,  entered. 
After  them  came  a  soldier,  the  one  who  had  shot 
the  man.  He  stepped  briskly  along  behind  his 
superiors,  but  the  instant  he  saw  the  corpse  he 
went  suddenly  pale,  and  quivered;  and  dropping 
his  head  stood  still.  When  the  official  asked  him 
whether  that  was  the  man  who  was  escaping  across 
the  frontier,  and  at  whom  he  had  fired,  he  was 
unable  to  answer.  His  lips  trembled,  and  his 
face  twitched.  "  The  s — s — s —  "  he  began,  but 
could  not  get  out  the  words  which  he  wanted  to 
say.  "  The  same,  your  excellency."  The  of- 
ficials looked  at  each  other  and  wrote  something 
down. 

"  You  see  the  beneficial  results  of  that  same 
system !  " 

In  a  room  of  sumptuous  vulgarity  two  men  sat 
drinking  wine.  One  of  them  was  old  and  grey, 
the  other  a  young  Jew.  The  young  Jew  was 
holding  a  roll  of  bank-notes  in  his  hand,  and  was 
bargaining  with  the  old  man.  He  was  buying 
smuggled  goods. 

"  You've  got  'em  cheap,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  Yes  —  but  the  risk — " 

"  This  is  indeed  terrible,"  said  the  young  Tsar; 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  275 

"  but  it  cannot  be  avoided.     Such  proceedings  are 
necessary." 

His  companion  made  no  response,  saying 
merely,  "  Let  us  move  on,"  and  laid  his  hand 
again  on  the  head  of  the  Tsar.  When  the  Tsar 
recovered  consciousness,  he  was  standing  in  a 
small  room  lit  by  a  shaded  lamp.  A  woman  was 
sitting  at  the  table  sewing.  A  boy  of  eight  was 
bending  over  the  table,  drawing,  with  his  feel 
doubled  up  under  him  in  the  armchair.  A  stu 
dent  was  reading  aloud.  The  father  and  daugh- 
ter of  the  family  entered  the  room  noisily. 

"  You  signed  the  order  concerning  the  sale  of 
spirits,"  said  the  guide  to  the  Tsar. 

"  Well?  "  said  the  woman. 

"  He's  not  likely  to  live." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?" 

"  They've  kept  him  drunk  all  the  time." 

"  It's  not  possible !  "  exclaimed  the  wife. 

"  It's  true.  And  the  boy's  only  nine  years  old, 
that  Vania  Moroshkine." 

"  What  did  you  do  to  try  to  save  him?  "  asked 
the  wife. 

"  I  tried  everything  that  could  be  done.  I  gave 
him  an  emetic  and  put  a  mustard-plaster  on  him. 
He  has  every  symptom  of  delirium  tremens." 

"  It's  no  wonder  —  the  whole  family  are  drunk- 
ards.    Annisia  is  only  a  little  better  than  the  rest, 


276  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

and  even  she  is  generally  more  or  less  drunk," 
said  the  daughter. 

"And  what  about  your  temperance  society?" 
the  student  asked  his  sister. 

"  What  can  we  do  when  they  are  given  every 
opportunity  of  drinking?  Father  tried  to  have 
the  public-house  shut  up,  but  the  law  is  against 
him.  And,  besides,  when  I  was  trying  to  convince 
Vasily  Ermiline  that  it  was  disgraceful  to  keep 
a  public-house  and  ruin  the  people  with  drink, 
he  answered  very  haughtily,  and  indeed  got  the 
better  of  me  before  the  crowd:  '  But  I  have  a 
license  with  the  Imperial  eagle  on  it.  If  there 
was  anything  wrong  in  my  business,  the  Tsar 
wouldn't  have  issued  a  decree  authorising  it.' 
Isn't  it  terrible?  The  whole  village  has  been 
drunk  for  the  last  three  days.  And  as  for  feast- 
days,  it  is  simply  horrible  to  think  of!  It  has 
been  proved  conclusively  that  alcohol  does  no  good 
in  any  case,  but  invariably  does  harm,  and  it 
has  been  demonstrated  to  be  an  absolute  poison. 
Then,  ninety-nine  per  cent,  of  the  crimes  in  the 
world  are  committed  through  its  influence.  We 
all  know  how  the  standard  of  morality  and  the 
general  welfare  improved  at  once  in  all  the  coun- 
tries where  drinking  has  been  suppressed  —  like 
Sweden  and  Finland,  and  we  know  that  it  can  be 
suppressed  by  exercising  a  moral  influence  over 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  277 

the  masses.  But  in  our  country  the  class  which 
could  exert  that  influence  —  the  Government,  the 
Tsar  and  his  officials  —  simply  encourage  drink. 
Their  main  revenues  are  drawn  from  the  continual 
drunkenness  of  the  people.  They  drink  them- 
selves —  they  are  always  drinking  the  health  of 
somebody:  'Gentlemen,  the  Regiment!'  The 
preachers  drink,  the  bishops  drink  — " 

Again  the  guide  touched  the  head  of  the  young 
Tsar,  who  again  lost  consciousness.  This  time  he 
found  himself  in  a  peasant's  cottage.  The  peas- 
ant—  a  man  of  forty,  with  red  face  and  blood- 
shot eyes  —  was  furiously  striking  the  face  of  an 
old  man,  who  tried  in  vain  to  protect  himself  from 
the  blows.  The  younger  peasant  seized  the  beard 
of  the  old  man  and  held  it  fast. 

"  For  shame!     To  strike  your  father —  !  " 

"I  don't  care,  I'll  kill  him!  Let  them  send 
me  to  Siberia,  I  don't  care!  " 

The  women  were  screaming.  Drunken  officials 
rushed  into  the  cottage  and  separated  father  and 
son.  The  father  had  an  arm  broken  and  the  son's 
beard  was  torn  out.  In  the  doorway  a  drunken 
girl  was  making  violent  love  to  an  old  besotted 
peasant. 

"  They  are  beasts!  "  said  the  young  Tsar. 

Another  touch  of  his  guide's  hand  and  the 
young  Tsar  awoke  in  a  new  place.     It  was  the 


273  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

office  of  the  justice  of  the  peace.  A  fat,  bald- 
headed  man,  with  a  double  chin  and  a  chain  round 
his  neck,  had  just  risen  from  his  seat,  and  was 
reading  the  sentence  in  a  loud  voice,  while  a  crowd 
of  peasants  stood  behind  the  grating.  There  was 
a  woman  in  rags  in  the  crowd  who  did  not  rise. 
The  guard  gave  her  a  push. 

"Asleep!  I  tell  you  to  stand  up!"  The 
woman  rose. 

"  According  to  the  decree  of  his  Imperial 
Majesty — "  the  judge  began  reading  the  sen- 
tence. The  case  concerned  that  very  woman. 
She  had  taken  away  half  a  bundle  of  oats  as  she 
was  passing  the  thrashing-floor  of  a  landowner. 
The  justice  of  the  peace  sentenced  her  to  two 
months'  imprisonment.  The  landowner  whose 
oats  had  been  stolen  was  among  the  audi- 
ence. When  the  judge  adjourned  the  court  the 
landowner  approached,  and  shook  hands,  and  the 
judge  entered  into  conversation  with  him.  The 
next  case  was  about  a  stolen  samovar.  Then 
there  was  a  trial  about  some  timber  which  had 
been  cut,  to  the  detriment  of  the  landowner. 
Some  peasants  were  being  tried  for  having  as- 
saulted the  constable  of  the  district. 

When  the  young  Tsar  again  lost  consciousness, 
he  awoke  to  find  himself  in  the  middle  of  a  vil- 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  279 

lage,  where  he  saw  hungry,  half-frozen  children 
and  the  wife  of  the  man  who  had  assaulted  the 
constable  broken  down  from  overwork. 

Then  came  a  new  scene.  In  Siberia,  a  tramp 
is  being  flogged  with  the  lash,  the  direct  result  of 
an  order  issued  by  the  Minister  of  Justice.  Again 
oblivion,  and  another  scene.  The  family  of  a 
Jewish  watchmaker  is  evicted  for  being  too  poor. 
The  children  are  crying,  and  the  Jew,  Isaaks,  is 
greatly  distressed.  At  last  they  come  to  an  ar- 
rangement, and  he  is  allowed  to  stay  on  in  the 
lodgings. 

The  chief  of  police  takes  a  bribe.  The  gov- 
ernor of  the  province  also  secretly  accepts  a  bribe. 
Taxes  are  being  collected.  In  the  village,  while 
a  cow  is  sold  for  payment,  the  police  inspector  is 
bribed  by  a  factory  owner,  who  thus  escapes  taxes 
altogether.  And  again  a  village  court  scene,  and 
a  sentence  carried  into  execution  —  the  lash! 

"  Ilia  Vasilievich,  could  you  not  spare  me 
that?" 

"  No." 

The  peasant  burst  into  tears.  "  Well,  of 
course,  Christ  suffered,  and  He  bids  us  suffer 
too." 

Then  other  scenes.  The  Stundists  —  a  sect 
• — being  broken  up  and  dispersed;  the  clergy  re- 


280  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

fusing  first  to  marry,  then  to  bury  a  Protestant. 
Orders  given  concerning  the  passage  of  the  Im- 
perial railway  train.  Soldiers  kept  sitting  in  the 
mud  —  cold,  hungry,  and  cursing.  Decrees  is- 
sued relating  to  the  educational  institutions  of  the 
Empress  Mary  Department.  Corruption  ram- 
pant in  the  foundling  homes.  An  undeserved 
monument.  Thieving  among  the  clergy.  The 
reinforcement  of  the  political  police.  A  woman 
being  searched.  A  prison  for  convicts  who  are 
sentenced  to  be  deported.  A  man  being  hanged 
for  murdering  a  shop  assistant. 

Then  the  result  of  military  discipline:  soldiers 
wearing  uniform  and  scoffing  at  it.  A  gipsy  en- 
campment. The  son  of  a  millionaire  exempted 
from  military  duty,  while  the  only  support  of  a 
large  family  is  forced  to  serve.  The  university: 
a  teacher  relieved  of  military  service,  while  the 
most  gifted  musicians  are  compelled  to  perform 
it.  Soldiers  and  their  debauchery  —  and  the 
spreading  of  disease. 

Then  a  soldier  who  has  made  an  attempt  to 
desert.  He  is  being  tried.  Another  is  on  trial 
for  striking  an  officer  who  has  insulted  his  mother. 
He  is  put  to  death.  Others,  again,  are  tried  for 
having  refused  to  shoot.  The  runaway  soldier 
sent  to  a  disciplinary  battalion  and  flogged  to 
death.     Another,   who   is   guiltless,   flogged,    and 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  281 

his  wounds  sprinkled  with  salt  till  he  dies.  One 
of  the  superior  officers  stealing  money  belonging 
to  the  soldiers.  Nothing  but  drunkenness,  de- 
bauchery, gambling,  and  arrogance  on  the  part  of 
the  authorities. 

What  is  the  general  condition  of  the  people: 
the  children  are  half-starving  and  degenerate;  the 
houses  are  full  of  vermin;  an  everlasting  dull 
round  of  labour,  of  submission,  and  of  sadness. 
On  the  other  hand:  ministers,  governors  of  prov- 
inces, covetous,  ambitious,  full  of  vanity,  and 
anxious  to  inspire  fear. 

"  But  where  are  men  with  human  feelings?  " 

"  I  will  show  you  where  they  are." 

Here  is  the  cell  of  a  woman  in  solitary  confine- 
ment at  Schlusselburg.  She  is  going  mad.  Here 
is  another  woman  —  a  girl  —  indisposed,  violated 
by  soldiers.  A  man  in  exile,  alone,  embittered, 
half-dead.  A  prison  for  convicts  condemned  to 
hard  labour,  and  women  flogged.  They  are 
many. 

Tens  of  thousands  of  the  best  people.  Some 
shut  up  in  prisons,  others  ruined  by  false  educa- 
tion, by  the  vain  desire  to  bring  them  up  as  we 
wish.  But  not  succeeding  in  this,  whatever  might 
have  been  is  ruined  as  well,  for  it  is  made  impos- 
sible. It  is  as  if  we  were  trying  to  make  buck- 
wheat out  of  corn  sprouts  by  splitting  the  ears. 


282  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

One  may  spoil  the  corn,  but  one  could  never 
change  it  to  buckwheat.  Thus  all  the  youth  of 
the  world,  the  entire  younger  generation,  is  being 
ruined. 

But  woe  to  those  who  destroy  one  of  these  little 
ones,  woe  to  you  if  you  destroy  even  one  of 
them.  On  your  soul,  however,  are  hosts  of  them, 
who  have  been  ruined  in  your  name,  all  of  those 
over  whom  your  power  extends. 

"  But  what  can  I  do?  "  exclaimed  the  Tsar  in 
despair.  "  I  do  not  wish  to  torture,  to  flog,  to 
corrupt,  to  kill  any  one !  I  only  want  the  welfare 
of  all.  Just  as  I  yearn  for  happiness  myself,  so  I 
want  the  world  to  be  happy  as  well.  Am  I  actu- 
ally responsible  for  everything  that  is  done  in  my 
name?  What  can  I  do?  What  am  I  to  do  to 
rid  myself  of  such  a  responsibility?  What  can  I 
do?  I  do  not  admit  that  the  responsibility  for  all 
this  is  mine.  If  I  felt  myself  responsible  for  one- 
hundredth  part  of  it,  I  would  shoot  myself  on  the 
spot.  It  would  not  be  possible  to  live  if  that  were 
true.  But  how  can  I  put  an  end  to  all  this  evil? 
It  is  bound  up  with  the  very  existence  of  the 
State.  I  am  the  head  of  the  State!  What  am  I 
to  do?  Kill  myself?  Or  abdicate?  But  that 
would  mean  renouncing  my  duty.  O  God,  O  God, 
God,  help  me !  "     He  burst  into  tears  and  awoke. 

"  How  glad  I  am  that  it  was  only  a  dream," 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  283 

was  his  first  thought.  But  when  he  began  to 
recollect  what  he  had  seen  in  his  dream,  and  to 
compare  it  with  actuality,  he  realised  that  the 
problem  propounded  to  him  in  dream  remained 
just  as  important  and  as  insoluble  now  that  he  was 
awake.  For  the  first  time  the  young  Tsar  became 
aware  of  the  heavy  responsibility  weighing  on  him, 
and  was  aghast.  His  thoughts  no  longer  turned 
to  the  young  Queen  and  to  the  happiness  he  had 
anticipated  for  that  evening,  but  became  centred 
on  the  unanswerable  question  which  hung  over 
him :  "  What  was  to  be  done  ?  " 

In  a  state  of  great  agitation  he  arose  and  went 
into  the  next  room.  An  old  courtier,  a  co-worker 
and  friend  of  his  father's,  was  standing  there  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  in  conversation  with  the 
young  Queen,  who  was  on  her  way  to  join  her 
husband.  The  young  Tsar  approached  them,  and 
addressing  his  conversation  principally  to  the  old 
courtier,  told  him  what  he  had  seen  in  his  dream 
and  what  doubts  the  dream  had  left  in  his  mind. 

"  That  is  a  noble  idea.  It  proves  the  rare 
nobility  of  your  spirit,"  said  the  old  man.  "  But 
forgive  me  for  speaking  frankly  —  you  are  too 
kind  to  be  an  emperor,  and  you  exaggerate  your 
responsibility.  In  the  first  place,  the  state  of 
things  is  not  as  you  imagine  it  to  be.  The  people 
are  not  poor.     They  are  well-to-do.     Those  who 


284  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

are  poor  are  poor  through  their  own  fault.  Only 
the  guilty  are  punished,  and  if  an  unavoidable 
mistake  does  sometimes  occur,  it  is  like  a  thunder- 
bolt —  an  accident,  or  the  will  of  God.  You  have 
but  one  responsibility:  to  fulfil  your  task  coura- 
geously and  to  retain  the  power  that  is  given  to 
you.  You  wish  the  best  for  your  people  and  God 
sees  that.  As  for  the  errors  which  you  have  com- 
mitted unwittingly,  you  can  pray  for  forgiveness, 
and  God  will  guide  you  and  pardon  you.  All  the 
more  because  you  have  done  nothing  that  demands 
forgiveness,  and  there  never  have  been  and  never 
will  be  men  possessed  of  such  extraordinary  qual- 
ities as  you  and  your  father.  Therefore  all  we 
implore  you  to  do  is  to  live,  and  to  reward  our 
endless  devotion  and  love  with  your  favour,  and 
every  one,  save  scoundrels  who  deserve  no  happi- 
ness, will  be  happy." 

"What  do  you  think  about  that?"  the  young 
Tsar  asked  his  wife. 

"  I  have  a  different  opinion,"  said  the  clever 
young  woman,  who  had  been  brought  up  in  a  free 
country.  "  I  am  glad  you  had  that  dream,  and  I 
agree  with  you  that  there  are  grave  responsibili- 
ties resting  upon  you.  I  have  often  thought  about 
it  with  great  anxiety,  and  I  think  there  is  a  simple 
means  of  casting  off  a  part  of  the  responsibility 


THE  YOUNG  TSAR  285 

you  are  unable  to  bear,  if  not  all  of  it.  A  large 
proportion  of  the  power  which  is  too  heavy  for 
you,  you  should  delegate  to  the  people,  to  its 
representatives,  reserving  for  yourself  only  the 
supreme  control,  that  is,  the  general  direction  of 
the  affairs  of  State." 

The  Queen  had  hardly  ceased  to  expound  her 
views,  when  the  old  courtier  began  eagerly  to 
refute  her  arguments,  and  they  started  a  polite 
but  very  heated  discussion. 

For  a  time  the  young  Tsar  followed  their  argu- 
ments, but  presently  he  ceased  to  be  aware  of 
what  they  said,  listening  only  to  the  voice  of  him 
who  had  been  his  guide  in  the  dream,  and  who 
was  now  speaking  audibly  in  his  heart. 

"  You  are  not  only  the  Tsar,"  said  the  voice, 
"  but  more.  You  are  a  human  being,  who  only 
yesterday  came  into  this  world,  and  will  perchance 
to-morrow  depart  out  of  it.  Apart  from  your 
duties  as  a  Tsar,  of  which  that  old  man  is  now 
speaking,  you  have  more  immediate  duties  not  by 
any  means  to  be  disregarded;  human  duties,  not 
the  duties  of  a  Tsar  towards  his  subjects,  which 
are  only  accidental,  but  an  eternal  duty,  the  duty 
of  a  man  in  his  relation  to  God,  the  duty  toward 
your  own  soul,  which  is  to  save  it,  and  also,  to 
serve  God  in  establishing  his  kingdom  on  earth. 


286  THE  YOUNG  TSAR 

You  arc  not  to  be  guarded  in  your  actions  either 
by  what  has  been  or  what  will  be,  but  only  by 
what  it  is  your  own  duty  to  do. 

He  opened  his  eyes  —  his  wife  was  awakening 
him.  Which  of  the  three  courses  the  young  Tsar 
chose,  will  be  told  in  fifty  years. 


,i£S°UTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILI 

II  li  nun  ii i 'mm 


AA    000  496  720 


